I should be gloriously happy. Rejoicing, celebrating, hailing the Gods, tra-la-la-ing and all that fancy rot. I should be in a mirthful disposition, looking forward to a legal union of sweethearts in the soulful and amorous season of February, a month that is generally brimming with the ripeness of winter. I should go blazing around my town, beating drums, proclaiming loudly that love triumphs all, meanwhile sneering at nay-sayers in a smirking glance that says, 'I told you so.' So amid all such 'should-bes' and a general atmosphere of geniality (everyone looks happy around me), why do I feel deflated instead? And feel as though Melancholy has marked me for her own? As though God is not in his heaven and all is not right? Lately, more often than not, I've found myself woolgathering, musing (accompanied by dazed, moony look on face) on gawd-knows-what. I would no doubt be presenting a spectacle to the idle eye; the said eye, in turn, no doubt deducing that myself must perhaps be sewn from a living rock. The worst (also annoying) part is, I can't seem to be able to put a finger on the dashed thing that has catapulted me into this bothersome state, just like that - out of the freakin' huey blue.
(FYI - No, I am NOT PMSing) *rolls eyes* (Neither am I cursing the fact that the most-rotten day of the year called V-Day is just around the corner and I don't have a date) *rolls eyes more ferociously now*
I'm fervently hoping the wedding will put said-bothersome-thing-whatever-the-blasted-heck-it-is off my poor, tortured mind. Have packed my stuff (nearly 20 kgs in all) and am ready to get going, to wherever I have to go.
On a more happy-for-my-cousin note, here's sincerely hoping that Aditi has the most wonderful time of her life on the most important day in her life. God bless her!
Really.
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