the snow queen
stole the heart
of my winter rose
in my window box
i chased her sleigh
for three years
and she said come work
as my slave for another year or more
and then we'll talk
when i said i dont have the strength to do that
she banished me for being irrational


it took us two years to get here
two years of living, learning and creating
now we are back at the mouth of the circle
pure as soft driven snow
a town arrested
by the frozen loch
watching seven confused birds
and resting from learning, practising and wandering
before we wonder where next we move on to
friends are like angels
invisible like sudden burst of perfume
that distracts you from a sulk
long enough for the bubble to burst.

and as invisible, and intangible.
diffuse, and unpredictable
where the next one will come from.
but whenever i need them they appear

my beautiful city

i love you and will always do
how can i help it
you are so beautiful
but now you are cold, and covered in layers of snow
i cannot reach you
i have tried everything i knew
sugar and spice
icepicks and gravel
but your freezing is relentless
i didnt stop loving you
if i stopped talking into the hills
it is because i dont hear the echos anymore
if i went
it is because i kept falling on your streets
and i cant bear to look around the familiar directions
and not see the things i love so much
one day spring will come in edinburgh
but i wont be here
even so, though you are cold and grey today
in my heart another you laughs
no papers were signed
no witnesses kept
no fire was lit
in the centre of our steps
only the moon in two countries
an indian village owl
hurried italian waiter
heard you when you said
you would love and cherish me till we lived
and forsake all the others
i gave you my everything
but you never asked
so no promises were broken
no injustice done
and maybe i imagined the forsaking bit
when mouse scurried across the dried grass
the loch
by the hill
is frozen over
execept for a narrow ledge of water
by the road
the birds, confused
are scattered across
shrugging droplets of summer water
off their dry wings
and stubbornly knocking
at their feet
all day aritra dealt with it like a man. that is to say, he acted like it did not exist, except as a vague nameless irritation, that underlined random small acts like throwing the wood on the floor with forcefulness. then at night finally, when he had crawled into bed, all the memories & pain crept back. and he cried. was there a place inside that tears came from? why did they never run out? aritra the strong, had turned away from life itself to be a scholar. he was strong. yet she could break him so easily, everytime, to her he was just a toy. why was it so easy for her? and so hard for him to walk away from from her callous laughter? why did his helplessness, his pain amuse her? everytime he thought he had found some peace, everytime he thought he could forget her and get back to work, her voice, and her laughter, rang out again. why did it hurt so much each time? he knew urvashi was a dancer, he had always known. why did it keep hurting? it was because he loved her. and love is like a cancer, a disease, a pain that imprisons forever. love is like a spider web. you can not see it till you walk into it. and then you can break it, but traces of it will linger on your face, in your memory. if you have really loved, you will never be free

randomly: snapshots from inside of my head

this is one of my favourites paintings. usually i fall in love with paintings for the light (like this or this). but in this i love the colours. for some reason it reminds me of the feeling i used to have when travelling by train in india, sitting on the stairs at the open door. free. the excruciating pain of loss is just labour for the birth of freedom (which is just some people talking). what is better? to be alone & cold, or warm yourself on the borrowed illusion of warmth, that is the reflection of a fire on the window pane of a laughing family house, as you walk by.

the feeling of being expelled from the safety of home, i remember. but i also remember the stomach churning panic and grief turning into the exhilaration of freedom. the sudden scary-mummy-less-ness turns slowly into exciting-mummy-free-ness. a summer evening sitting with misc kids by a rail track that passed behind their house. waiting for the evning entertainment. the train that went by. colgate tooth powder. the communal screen showing sharabi. a classmates house. food warmth and a borrowed mummy. but she's not really mine, even if she says she loved me. the essence of mummy-ness is that she is tied to you and will not abandon you or let you freeze or starve. she will take care of you. but then you realise that you can take care of yourself. the fucked up teenage brain relaxs.

after an age, i remembered living in stockbridge. sometimes, something change us, and our lives so much, that we forget who we were before. i remembered walking home in the evening, past the basement flats, with one window open to the world. i remember looking in, from outside.

if i ever come back to edinburgh, i will live in stockbridge again. but will i come back? what does the future hold, i wonder. i wake up most mornings thinking about it.

finally saw "The River". SO DISSAPOINTING! Bad taste in my mouth. unfortunately it was the last of my movies of the weekend. i watch 3 movies from my lovefilm queue every weekend. this weekends lot was an education, heimat) and the (ghastly) river.

mesmerised by the idea of cognitive binding, at the moment. like for example whenever i say at the moment i remember hearing it in french in class with the bathtub example (lise saying my husband is in the tub at the moment), or that every time i encounter any article in any title i have the words THE end of THE affair in my head (and a moment when i was looking through musty library shelves trying to locate it).

i have insane amounts of work to do but i am taking a day off. still feel too sick to venture out. besides, i am still "speechless". i cannot even croak any longer. its still snowing. will it ever stop? im sick of the cold & the inconvenience. the snowpeople from yesterday have been ravaged by the wind, and covered by a fresh layer of snow. but in all its horrible-ity, the season will bring the christmas market, mulled wine in the park and my beloved robin. and the light ...

the afternoon light is slanted low. my city glows. the old grey stones blush pink. and then evening falls, and the sun is fractured and reborn. at night each street light echoes eerily off the carpet of snow. every sound is muffled. the solitary light outside the stone gate downstairs reminds me of narnia, sticking out of the snow like that. and little speech bubble hangs over it (what do you think of Sarkozy?).

after months of casual detachedness my patriotic loyalty has been reawakened! i think the festival should have been in 'my city', literacy rate or not!

as i struggle to focus on case studies of prosopagnosia, my psyche bombards me with memories of floating over a courtyard in california, patchworked with sunlight and happiness, a frown, and only one moment of acknowledgement. and many such memories. the war is necessary before the peace might descend. afterwards, we can begin again

i went, i saw and i was conquered

after mch skepticsm, finally stepped into the surreal world of modern art! despite neophyte-shoe-bites, struck by 3 dalis, 1 eluard & 2 earnst. the symmetrical division of the canvas in miro's "TĂȘte de Paysan Catalan" was interesting, but most of all i was captivated by dali works above. it seems so ridiculous now that i went all the way to girona but didnt see the dali museum. even more, though the exhibition was at the dean gallery, most the paintings i loved were from the modern art museum across the road (and i might have seen it for free any of these past many years - if not for my fear of modern art!)

i'd held on to the conviction that modern art is ugly and i wont like it. more, that it is abstruse and i wont 'get' it. characteristically, i arrived at, and held on to, these superstitions without looking into any modern art. however, what i discovered was that modern art adds the dimension of thought and interpretation to a random work of art. like the ugly blob which showed a fossil, with an eye stuck in it, it tells a story.

apparently, i have been converted!

I'm not a huge fan of Monet, but I loved the light in this one. It reminded me of a girl getting slowly drunk on Washington bridge, trying to muster courage to jump. it never fails to amaze me that such a difficult option is considered taking the easy way out. is not submitting to forced humiliation, failure, boredom and in quiet desperation easier? to surrender to whatever pure coincidence has assigned as your lot and to bear it - day after day after day. to come back to the girl, she slipped on the railing and fell on the road, to be hit by a car. ironically, my biggest nightmare. and even more ironic the day i ended up seeing the movie. what is life but a series of bizarre coincidences.

The Edinburgh gallery is probably the opposite of the big gallery in Paris (who's name escapes my spotless mind). It is small but every piece is worthy of it's place. Here's two more that I am captivated by this week:


This weekend or the coming week, I go to see this. Been looking forward to it for ages!

lands and people

"From Europe I follow the roads of the Roma into the orient: to Armenia and Iran where the Sassanids once ruled, and before them the Achaemenids. From here the road leads to another land where the Indus-river flows to the land where the Kushans once held sway."

The Roads of the Roma, Leksa Manu

the gypsies: the emblem of the disinherited? migrating, home-bereft, no-lands-men?

past and present

what is patriotism? does it beget chauvinism? where does the schizophrenia in anandamath come go? does hate come just from fear, or are there other roots? is there a delicate balance on a nursery playground see-saw between humanity and hatred? am i my brothers keeper?

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hope soars
from the end of the blind lane
where we are lost

roots spin
down from the ground
where we crouch down in fear

i begin
from here
where i lost myself

lazy sunny sunday morning

oversleeping unalarmed on a
sunday morning
spending time
with my coffee and myself
and lazy wandering in my mind
sunday morning
playing in the background
thinking of people & things i know
does everybody want a friend
trying to teach myself to relax
and be happy with just myself
hus the fears & little whimpers
sunday morning
the leaves of the tree outside my window
dancing in the wind
makes shadows
on the sunshine falling on my hand
and colours and smells outside
could fleetingly get you high
and the dreams of teh night
are bare cobwebs in the mind
as you of a dream last
i am who i am. and it's a
sunday morning
i am the wound collector
would you like to come in
look at my collection
here. first these are the surface wounds
they are drier and easier to keep
and here at the back, here's a glass house
the most rare and delicate wounds i keep here
most days i forget them in excitement of everyday life
sometimes, on a boring rainy sunday afternoon
i go visit the glass house
or someday i walk in to store a new one
is it not ironic that today even when we voyage often we are not really travelling? it is almost like we have polished to perfection the ideal of the destination being more important than the journey.

in my fantasies, i dream of travelling for months aimlessly across a trail of places untouched, unspoiled, un-pimped by pretty pictures in tourism booklets. uncluttered by civilised, erudite, intellectuals rushing past in stylish coats, and smiling in the arms of secret holiday girlfriends, escaping from their real lives for a luxurious stolen half day break. Or groups of stressed foreigners (seemingly foreign from everywhere) frantically checking off must-see lists. Or perfect families, with perfectly coordinated holiday outfits. i dream of smiles of real people, with imperfect un-manicured teeth, untouched by the obsession for perfect appearances. to travel for the sake of travel. aimlessly rambling. one foot in front of the other in surprised serendipity. like an exuberantly solitary child exploring the beach and the hills on a summer holiday.

in another dream i long to be a part of a simpler world. a world where i would have been un-torn by choices, happy, sad, angry, alive, but at peace because i know no other ways. a simple safe childhood. a normal life. and un-fragmented mind. coherent thought. aligned with normalcy. to not be the one 'normal kids' sneer at and hurl casual stones at. some that glance off. and some that fall to your shoes and slip in and hide there, forever, becoming a gently nagging companian who's barbs you grow so accustomed to, that perhaps it is something close to what 'normal people' call 'love'.

yet in such a world i could not have gone travelling for months in deserts and frozen landscapes. or read of and dreamed about seeing the idatrod. when i was a child in it was in a moment of frustration and escape seeking that i happened to read about it.

perhaps in solitude we can forget the real world and be lost in some world of dreams, or fancies. forget how ugly the real world is. full of dwarf-brained-ugly people, acid soaked hearts full of hatred and zeal for punishment. the gleam in the eye of the purist as he condemns a man, and marks him out for punishment forms some part of my nightmares. perhaps because i am such a sinner myself. if we all were to grow our own personal gods, out of our fertile brains backyards, mine would be wise and wistful, yet funny. sometimes angry, sometimes passionate, sometimes childish. switching roles. back and forth. loving. living. laughing. and sometimes sitting on a park bench talking of the moon. my god would laugh at my screw-ups as he bends down to tie my laces. and he would run home to me excited to tell me about a new world i conquered. first and foremost be a friend. and friends don't judge or punish you. (now i am laughing at the picture i painted & an inside joke).

if we could only find and understand ourselves. if we could look within and know what we see. if we could convince ourselves of the reality that is. see people as they are, not as we build them in our heads.

enjoy the moment, as it flits. not let today slip out of our fingers like sand while we hunt and grasp for some obscure goal. not let this moment slip out of our fingers like air while screech out our silently and wring our hands in quiet desperation eyes tightly shut in petrified fear of some ill-perceived, half-probably tomorrow.

if only we found the courage and grace to live. to voyage. aimlessly. leave everything that is meaningless. and run away with everything that is precious. stop living for fear of perceptions, and poorly fitting "should be"s and "out to be"s evolved and inherited from a forgotten time and a far away place.

if only today i could run away from hear and now, and hide on my childhood beaches of tartous, or the streets of alleppo, the oldest city in the world, and spend my days drinking, smoking, eating the 'food of purity' and reading rumi.
it takes a lot of nerve
to make the final cut
to fade into the night
however hellish the days
and the chord that delivers
you reluctantly to life
takes its revenge slow
and sweet
it took a while for the fading of the light to register. for aritra to realise that the day was ending. a part of felt uncharacteristically petrified. would he survive a night in this horrible place. as the irrational human mind tends to do, his couldnt come to terms with his new reality. anamitra the bright shining star of ambajinagar, had left home to steal the fire of the gods. rejected the fate of mere mortals. crept out in the night. left behind his the brave but young brother. father. mother. the good the bad the joys and sorrows of ordinary mortal life, in search of a higher purpose. and he anamitra, had fallen into a cave he couldnt climb out of, because he had been to lost in his destination to look where he was going. time and again his thoughts went to his brother, brave but young.
an surreal training on bereavement management
and we are asked to write names of four people on four slips
then we give up two, and one is taken away
and i realise your name wasnt on the slip
i am startled by my basic instinct,
i search inside me for the answer
like we hunt for a bus pass in our cavernous handbags
after an age i realise
how could i write your name for a game of chance
you are a part of me, are you not?
just like you always said
flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood
dirty murky blood
shame tainted blood
it's late
cant sleep
beautiful day
day of getting by
and keep the devils out
in the far corners of the carpet (swept under)
getting by, with a little help from friends (and the spririts)
but now the golden sunlight has faded
and the wind howls as loud as a giant
and trees rustle like frightened deer
and bizzarely, all the geese have walked away from the loch
and stalked across the meadow
all the way home
hello geese
but now i cant sleep
dead-end dreams
and most of all
the humiliation of being
and the emptiness of the emptiness
unlike what they say, i think,
to have never loved at all, would be one thing
but loved and lost, and still hopelessly love
buidling castles of lies and delusions
that makes a man, a giant, melt like a sugar doll
in a bowl of rum
to to watch, just breaks your heart
dont cry baby, baby please dont cry
but its not me you want, is it, got me or not
and where trhe fuck would i find you another her?
i can hit record
and replay though
turn around your prophesies
i love irony
the blade in skin irony
the warm soft blood irony
does the iron in the blood ever rust?
but outside the wind rustles
never loud enought to drown the thoughts

august came and went. left masks and muscles tired from clenching, and the cracks beginning to show

you keep dying
you die a million deaths
in every story
and every new person that dies
you die again
and now its almost time for you to die
like you die anyway, every year
and i wait
in tense anticipation
28 days to go
and then we'll die once more
this will be our last year
in this place you died with me
down the streets
by the church
in the highways
down highways and graves
where i waited
liar liar
promise breaker
wont you come back to me?
ghost of my haunting, dearly beloved
best friend, root, and gradener
how dare the years try to smudge
the lines of blood let
when the the burning sharpness of the pain
is the only real things i have left



when it rains in scotland
the glistening shimmering skies
are a shade called wistful

the beasts of tears and anger
tired, beat by their own fury
collapse by the banks

and in the middle a pool,
deep, deeper than the original sorrow
fills with memories. snapshots. echoes of words.

footprints. of a beautiful,
vibrant passionate life
that died so impotent, so young
thank you. for the new pain you brought.
as the weights of the collective crosses
i'd chosen, or stumbled upon, settled
and time polished the sharp edge of my thorns,
the old pains had been growing rusty
like an artists old pen
and the blood in the nib was drying
so thank you for the new wounds
and thank you for the rain
the tears that cleaned the rust away


missing missing

can you have a equivalent of being in love with love, for heimat? i am homeless, i am the gypsy. everyday i am homesick. everyday my homesick bears a new name. syria, calcutta, edinburgh

where do homeless hearts go? will they ever find home?

do you know ...

the kind of days that seem so unreal
that you just dont register them
and nights that are so lonely and blue
that you could cry
and realization, sits perched
at the corner of the duvet
and taunts you with a hideous grin and rotting sore teeth
and eyes brimming with blood
and pinches each drop of sleep
between a gnarled bony thumb
and fore-fingers
popping them like
the little pearls of bubble wrap
and you lay there night after night
heart racing
watching the movie reel of
all your crimes, past-present
and the punishment present-future
you watch, petrified,
as the devil waves the receipt for your soul under your nose
and you dream of your lovely voice
with which you could have told the prince your tale
had you not sold it for a pair of legs
with which to go watch him dance with someone else
and cry at the hopelessness of your fate
and the prince kindly on his way out
pats you on the head with benign affection
good dog
and curiously fingers an ugly strand of wayward hair
on your ugly mutt face
and with the kind, benign cruelty of indifference
places the last straw in your beggers plate

have you ever felt the heart rushing panic ...

of a sneaking suspicion that you missed the last bus?
love, babies, wisdom, glory, a calling, words, thoughts, fame, name,
everything came knocking, and then
by the time you woke up,
it had passed laughing by down the corridor,
while you stared groggily after it
rubbing your eyes.

and the few times you did wake up
and say to yourself, no not this time
and took up chase after it
when you caught up, and
grabbed him by the shoulder
and said wait a minute, you were my opportunity
you just came knocking on my door a second ago
he turned, and in a fleeting second
you were in the market place
saying this is nothing more than an illusion
struck by the thunderbolt of belated realisation
awakening like in hunt's little piano girl
jolted out as if from a dream ...
and then you turn
and still barefoot, and groggy eyed
flee back to your room down the corridor
while the spectre, now macabre post-realisation,
runs after you you weeping, clawing, throwing
steel ropes of pity-entitlements, and but-i'm-yours-and-only's
and claims, and tears, and beggings and alms-demands,
coming after you, while you run, run, run
lightly like holly,
trailing a black river of running-mascara
to mark all your mis-paths
you run


it takes great beauty, and lot of favour with fate,
and a certain je ne sais quoi
for the spellbound princess frozen on the abandoned tower,
to be noticed and rescued by the (correct) prince

if, alas, any or all these ingredients be missing,
when the time has run out, and the spell fallen into effect,
she stays that way through eternity, captured, frozen, in stone,
with just a moment and a memory trapped with her for consolation

the sun, however, stubbornly obtuse,
keeps rising and setting as usual each day!
somehow, it seems to have missed the realisation,
that life is slowly coming to an end.

knowing the peculiar bitter flavour of my fate,
and my alloted princes particular brand of impotence,
the allotment itself, i could say,
is yet a twist of fate

my beloved fate.
my like you cannot leave without sorrow the lanes of your mourning,
can you ever be detached from your tormentor, your hatred,
can you ever let go of your thorns, your cross, your flaws?

did cain love adam more or abel
is love, human love, ever love without violence of passions
without anger, demands, and jeoulousy?
or is it so because we all inherited our passionate hate-love from him?

perhaps he who taught me was right
perhaps all love starts at the seeds and the roots layed,
moves upwards to shoot through the ground strong and straight
but otherwise, it twists in spiral like a snake eating its tale. for ever

For M (who knows who she is)

you are right. we've come a long way: you, me, us. if you would believe me, there were many points along the road that i missed you, suddenly and intensely, and i tentatively tried to feel my way back. you were one of the few souls who always unquestioningly let me come and go, and accepted that it was never meant badly, but was just a fall-out of my gypsy ways. i was like the gypsy who had to roam, and you were like the the householder who let me in some nights, whenever i came calling, through the back door and sat with me in a dimly lit kitchen and shared with me a glass of wine, stories and dreams. and you made me feel safe, and i came in and talked to your dog, and your rocking chair, and even fell in love with your old man, a little. and it was warm, so i took of my heavy mask, and put my weapons down, in a corner by the fire. and took out the hidden bags of words and dreams and memories, and the precious special tobacco, saved for special occasions and never touched. thus it was with you and me. and i tried to to test the waters and see if to test if you would still let me come back, but maybe fear, or age, made my knocking fingers tremble, and you didn't hear. and i thought you were busy, with your world, and went away again. but i thought of you, always, along the way. of all the friends i made along the way, you were the one soul who always let me come and go. i always loved you, and i always will, but that's not what makes you special. i felt safe, and i felt loved.

for my little one?

packed in drawers
with the rest of childhood,
hidden in blue-lined books
with formulas and equations,
untouched for years,
and gnawed at by a growing family of termites,
this time home coming,
i found these words,
and the dedication,
for my little one.

"We, the wild falcons of these skies,
the soft orphans of these tumultuous times,
the sweet, intoxicating, poison-hearted, wicked-thorned
Wildflowers of the desert of progress,

We, with delicate bright and fragile petals
with burning acid centers that sear you when u reach them,
much disguised, too late to draw out, to draw out whole,
caveat-emptor, proceed at your your own risk

Will we ever find a home in the Garden
of the Gentle & Wise Gardener
with leather gloved Hands
Will we ever, find our way back to heaven

He was the witch, with the magic potion
The Lord of good and bad
the searing burning deforming goodness
the last hope & salvation
the only one who could save us
could i reach you in time
before you sold out
the price, to learn submission
and faith

The full moon, one night old
the hungry winds screaming down deserted roads
dried and shriveled hearts
empty and drained souls
flashing down the deserted night
a lone peregrine, gray and white
dreams, gone with yesterday
hopes, dead with the last week
but red flames run behind
to even look back would be scorching
to keep running on is the only way left open
into the welcoming heart of the deep dark sea

and then I saw you in the meadow
Night painted dark the hedgerow
No silver moon shone that night
All the light was in from your eye
I stopped and dipped into those eyes

A break in our forever forward strides
You held my hand and made me stop
Something made my heartbeat drop
But i cud never be still for long enough
Shrugged off the feeling and we walked off
Still i knew u remained
somewhere along the road
sometimes a little ahead sometimes behind
not holding hands, not mating lips
but ur were there
somewhere on the same path
we have destinies to fulfil
long way to walk, you and me

i dreamt of a faery
ethereal in the night
i dreamt of clouds
glowing with light
i dreamt of u
i draemt that u died
i dreamt of me going on
empty inside

and this:

It was a deep stormy night
You slept through that night, peaceful
I kept watch
I never saw you, had not really known you
But I knew u were so small & vulnerable
I could feel you
I do not know who you are, do not know how you are
lone star in the dark of the night, sweeter by far
than anything I ever deserved
u came to me for love & safety
i knew that much, yet i drove you away
i had too
now it hurts so much to think of you and all the joy we could have had, together
I will hold this pain forever
I'll never forget you
lone star in the dark of the night,
sweeter by far than anyone anywhere.
sweet child, sweet smile,
big big brown eyes.
gentle and soft,
trusting & lost.
home and safe a night before,
now lost and wandering for evermore.
gone forever, only to remain
in my heart, as a bittersweet pain.


why was the world created
and populated with life
and made, each so beautiful
and i put in it
if i cant write about it ...
i feel the beauty like a knife in my heart
it moves me so ...
life all around
seasons changing
places turning
people live, dying, growing.
but i? i cant write about it"


When we are lost, or when we have lost something, the mind keeps drifting back to all the points on the way before the losing. is this what the feel-good-club calls following your bliss? today i can think of three such moments, in random order: walking to portobello from richmond in the rain, all three hours of it, to say farewell to a passion laid to rest; driving in Calcutta, through the rain, to Sector V; Walking along Fredricksburg Road, the day after I arrived in San Antonio.

What is in common to them all? A new start. A new hope. A new goad. Recovery from heart ache or failure. Finding the courage to start again. But most of all, blissful ignorance that one more disaster, and one more heart-break lurked just round the corner, each more debilitating than the next.

Does life have an infinite capacity to recover and re-start? Perhaps, perhaps not. Sometimes, sometimes not. Like everything else in nature, its just a roll of the dice.

A Happy New Year: Will it be?

In the end we are all looking for a friend, a confidante. Stuck in complicated times, a trapped in complicated roles, we are all looking for someone to tell our troubles to. I used to wonder at our own vanity, I used to be amazed that I, and so many people like me, are so enamored by my own self and my own thoughts, feelings, opinions that we so obsessively want to share each fleeting feeling and thought with our own virtual communities. I wondered what lay behind this hunger, this 'stroke greed'.

But then I realized that we're probably a very lonely generation. A lot of us are caught in flux, trapped between changing social times. We really belong nowhere and fit in with noone. More than ever before, we have no friends, no family, no intimate social circle in the conventional sense to share our problems with, to whine to, vent steam to, share concerns and pleasures with, celebrate success and mourn failures with.

I was born in Syria, grew up in India and have spent the last two decades in two continents and four different cities. I grew up with my grand-parents, came to live with my parents when I was ten and left when I was eighteen. Most of my friends are people either too young to identify with the faint birth pangs of midlife crisis, or they are already planning which school to put their third child in, and therefor in a different place. I dont feel like I belong anywhere, geographically or socially.

I think the point is that an increasing number of people dont fit in anymore. They belong to none of the classic social categories and therefore have very few friends they have common concerns with. I am sure this category misfits always existed, but there werent so many. Or maybe I just feel it more since I am one of them.

Also, there are more single people than ever before, or again, you are more conscious of more single people than ever before. At first glance this appears to be because more people chose their careers over family. But I think thats only part of the reason. I think a large part of the reason is that more and more people didnt fit. The easy early hook-ups were more common amongst socially similar people. People you can relate to easily, have things in common with, have common goals, principles and ideas with. Which has become more and more difficult and as time goes on, and also as time goes on become more important, in a twisted cycle. On top of that I think the new social structure has made infidelity either more omnipresent, or more conspicuous, or both. While all the while the shrinking social structure means that all those little social needs and itches that were once scratched by family, cousins, friends, children have now all converged on the significant other - making frustration with one's partner almost inevitable. I'm this affects existing partnerships, and people on the verge of forming a new alliance.

So maybe the connection between 'our generation' and its new social structure is the classic case of which came first, the chicken or the egg. Do I blog because I have noone to talk to, or do I have no real friends because cyber friendships fill all my free time?