Switzerland,  or the little part I have seen, is beautiful with green hills all around and is prohibitively expensive. St. Gallen, the little town my university is located in is so hilly that it has a network of roads and a perpendicular network of steps. The people here must be crazy over plains. Most commercial establishments close by seven, except of course, the ubiquitous night clubs and bars.

It has been two weeks of worrying about how cold it might get, waiting for the resident permit and trying to live frugally.

She and I, we lose our clothes, and our masks. Shedding shame on the altar of love; our bodies fuse, wishing we were never two.

“Take me,” she says, “I am yours”. And then, she consumes me whole; I exist no more. Who belongs to whom? We are now one.

The wren and the small gilded fly. Almost Shakespearean. I chuckle at the thought before we die and are reborn, all in one moment.

Now, as I lay with you in my arms, hearing you breathe, watching your breasts heave, smelling you and tasting your sweat, I dissolve. We are now one.

Consummation.

Thought torn asunder as the trains scoot, refusing to wait. One for the grassy meadows, one for the hills, one for the sea and several through the grand milieu, into the possible futures. Ha-ha, how many of the several shall halt again? memories of the others inspiring regret, phew or disgust. Chance.

Malice and greed. Malice and greed. While I watch, I swallow myself. The I is scared for there is no light inside me, for there is no equal, nor is there magic. Each adding to the former – Fibonacci? Moving through pipes, into bags, I wish disappearance – perhaps, digestion. Hope.

Elbows on knees, faces in palms, clenched teeth. Neither herb nor spirit to soothe as masks are lost and posts are moved. Despair.

I assume you must be preparing to leave. I cannot but admire your stoical acceptance of the impending end. We humans never seem to be able to undermine our sense of permanence. I apologize  for my kind’s failure to give you a decent farewell. We tend to make a spectacle of the new and hold nothing but contempt for the old.

It is said among my kind that when the time to leave comes, the whole life flashes in front of our eyes. I trust you’ll excuse my small minded arrogance to assume that your association with me is worth a blip in your flash.

It seems as yesterday that you demurely welcomed me into your arms under the cloud of ecstasy and bottomless Indian made foreign spirits. As our acquaintance grew, so did my liking for you. I lent myself to positive reinvention even as there were times I wished you would outlive me.

Thank you for moving on when I was consumed by impotent fury. Thank you for tripping on life with me. Thank you for teaching me to fly with clipped wings. Thank you for the dreams made, the love found, the barriers breached,the places reached, the scars and the smiles. Thank you for leaving me a better man than you found.

I love you.

You have been there. Sometimes people just don’t get it. They refuse to take your words seriously. The problem is compounded if you are a super sexy guy with an awesome sense of humor and outrageous wit. Three years ago, I tried to find a solution and failed. 

Bipolar disorder is a serious problem. BPD can affect every aspect of a person’s life  resulting in damaged relationships, poor job or school performance, and even suicide. One in five persons with the disorder kills himself. (will save joke about female suicide failures for a later occasion)  It saddens me  that people refuse to believe that I suffer from this disorder. Statistics from lifeinlines clearly show my abnormally elevated and depressed moods over time. Most people dismiss it as common mood swings. Let’s face it folks, you cannot forever live in a state of denial – I suffer from Bipolar disorder. And no, this is NOT like the time I claimed kleptomania, attention deficit disorder, Obsessive-compulsive disorder or multiple personality disorder to get away from responsibility. This is a serious issue. I need all the support you can give me.

It is not as if I’m claiming to be suffering from the Incurable Aching Balls Syndrome like this friend of mine. That is preposterous. Incurable Aching Balls Syndrome, would you believe it? Agreed that his balls hurt, sometimes unbearably; agreed also that a few thousand dollars and a few good men/women quacks later, no one has a clue what the deal is, but the claim is barf-worthy. He is making it all up in his mind if you ask me. He should stop smoking strange compounds. It is because of  dubious claims like these that genuine sufferers like me are forced to face denial. No one even responds to my pity-mongering Facebook status messages anymore.

All this makes me feel like a caged rat. And that is something else I suffer from : Caged rat-ism. No one gets me. Do you?

Fatalism? Tam? sigh!

Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children is Best of Booker. Salman Rushdie was named winner of the Best of the Booker award for Midnight’s Children. Midnight’s Children won the Booker Prize in 1981. It was then chosen as the Booker of Bookers in 1993 — the only other time a celebratory prize has been awarded.

Ever since the Best of Booker award was proposed, I was sure who the winner would be. Can we have an end to the Swedish politics of neutrality, show some balls and bring the Nobel on?

Tags: Books, Rushdie, Nobel, Booker

An adventurous Polish toddler was found trying to check in for a flight after making a 15-mile journey to an airport on his own.

Three-year-old Mikolaj Sobolewski unlocked the front door of his parents’ home and got onto a bus from a stop outside their house to take him to Okecie airport in Warsaw.

He was only grounded when police spotted him in the departure lounge.

Ananova reports.