Of Me and Myself

These days may go down in the pages of a famous writer's book whose whimsical ideas may instigate him into doing my biography. He would talk of me walking down the hallway looking aimlessly at absorbed peers or clogged offices. Of sitting in one of the chairs in the lecture room letting each word in the air pass me by leaving behind its impressions on my mind.
Of cribbing about the obvious attraction of a girlfriend towards a guy in the same class, or teasing the other for her unobvious moves towards another. Of cokes, coffees and non-existant water in the water cooler. Of the brilliance of the sun or the sudden ten-second spell of rain. Of fearless endeavours with the ragging of seniors, yet fearful escapes when they look away.
Of believing in oneself's ability to excel but hating to wake up in the morning to dress. Of the oddest of combinations of clothes to wear and the overdoze of denims to digest. Of life and its propositions. Of roads and buildings. Of culture and modernization. Of me and myself.
Of the life and times of Gursimran, of her teddy-bear cellphone cover which she never used and of her Escada bag which fails to showcase its brandname.
And of a long blogpost dedicated to the same...