..plastic smile

i like her plastic smile, few inches wide, tightlipped and pulled up to her cheek bones. she keeps her hair pulled back and formed a bun at the back of her head. a loose strand of her hair, which she keeps loose to keep herself busy, pulling it behind her ears from time to time. she donnes a collared shirt with thin blue and white checks and a small front pocket. she wears a thin golden chain around her neck, without any lockets, slightly pulled back towards her back. she doesn't have an earring, neither does she don a nosering. she serves coffee in the corner shop of 23rd Lane, a 2 minutes walk away from my home or my residence, whatever you prefer to call it.
I saw her standing by the counter, looking at the menu, or rather staring it for more that a couple of minutes. She might be calculating how much 13 cups of coffee and 19 burgers would cost. I know not, neither do I intend to find out. What interested me most was a golden earring that day. A tiny one, with the shape of probably a butterfly, quite difficult to figure out from a distance, you see. She looked exhausted, still looking intently at the menu. But what's the matter with her earrings. Was something special that day? Probably her birthday, the thought crossed my mind several times to ask her about it, but decided against it. I was afraid of she being apprehensive about entertaining such questions or remarks.
I went again to the coffee shop, next day. She was taking orders from a couple sitting in a corner of the shop. I passed by her, just hoping to have a sneak at her earrings. Yes! it was a butterfly. What a lovely earring! And her plastic smile, it looked ever so wonderful while she pulled her hair back to give me better view.

i dnt knw..sometimes things happen to pass by my mind..

the roads looked deserted and no vehicles passed by...
...the stench from the drain nearby kept mingling with my thought

and dragging my attention...
..it had barely been an hour but the night seemed to be never

ending..
i kept waiting...waiting for that window to open...
..the window behind the dark leaves of that tree...its thin

branches obstructing my view...
the hope of a face so beautiful opening that window...
..i was standing there..awake by the dream, whole night...
..the night never ended...and the window never opened..
...i knew she was there..standing beside that window...never

sleeping herself...
..but she kept the urge of opening that window to herself...
...she liked torturing me...and i liked standing in front of her

window...
...she had asked me not to stand there...walk by the garden...or

go shopping on the weekends..or go, party with my friends...or do

whatever i wish...but not to stand in front of her window...
...but gardens are so less in numbers...shops too few...and the

roads, all go about in circles..
...what will you do when we meet again...search for that

window..when that is there...no more again...
...a thin curtain of water will envelop everything...a face so

still in time will remain tied to that place...the time will

erode the paint of the picture hanging on the wall...
...heat will evaporate all water...but what will happen to the

man who is still standing in front of your window...still

thinking that there is a face behind that window...
..keeping the urge to herself...but not opening that window...

..a girl by the glass wall

four..five...six...seven, i counted my steps as i moved closer, still talking on my fone, i had another glimpse of her through the corner of my eye. pretty, isn't she? i asked myself the question, over n over again while i strolled those seven steps, to and fro to have another glimpse of her. her arm running down her slender figure, moving slightly as if awaken by the wind, head tilted on the side and the other hand, holding the fone by her ear, smiling, as if she just remembered a wonderful dream. her eyes twinkled or was it the sunlight falling on the glass wall. probably it was the mixture of too much caffeine and a dizzy head. i m not walking those seven steps again, i told myself, as i found myself there, standing again, looking at her through the corner of my eye.

silence please

i loose count of how many fists landed up on the wall of my bedroom. the light is off, automobile lights keeps showing through the window from time to time. I lie down on the floor, legs stretched, head bent down, hands folded behind my neck. am i sobbing for some reason? i dont remember. I need water. i go to the dining table where cold drink bottles are kept filled with water. i take one and pour water till i feel like puking. i keep it aside, still uncapped and sit down on the couch. I look up at the ceiling and think of laughing at it for no apparent or hidden reasons, just laughing histerically, pulling out the fan from the ceiling, pulling out all the wires attached to it. i start breathing heavily. i close my eyes and keep breathing heavily. i got used to it in no time and felt normal again. automobile lights flashes through the window curtains again it was dark within no time. there is a sudden thought of emptiness inside me. it sounds like an empty tin can kicked by someone walking on the road. it rolls on the road towards the inclination, making a tinkering sound, stops after a while, and there it is, silence again, ever so unsympathetic, tormenting me from head to toe. i am in freaking pain. i turn on the music, loud, still loud, it stays there with me, longer, longer still. i drank water again till i felt like puking. i turn off the music. i am tired. i lie down on the mattress spread on the ground, folding myself into an embryo. i dont remember anything. i am asleep. it is still there. silence.

the apparition

stopped coming to my dreams, the lighted lampposts started dimming and the sound of footsteps started coming from the street. i know not, whether it was an indication of a new dawn, a new beginning or a lost soul, wandering around, the footsteps that i could still hear, few lost words in the general humming around. the restlessness cease to hount me and boredom had its grip so tight that i almost felt suffocating, the kind of suffocation you feel when everything smells the same around you and you loose the hope of seeing any new occurances of amusing wizardry, the king of suffocation that you fell when you are surrounded by a thousand mirrors and see yourself all around and still knowing that it is not you. you can hear the sound of time ticking away and the racing heart coming to a stop, or evaporate like spirits dropping on your palm, without a sizzle, without any noise.

the apparition stopped coming ot my dreams, as it had warned me so, but i never believed as i had never believed that it was an apparition after all.

the purple dust settled on her feathers and her lovely fish eyes, her voice breaking the silence as if a tray of twinkling wine glasses just hit the floor and her footfalls coming like hustling of wind chimes. the wind chimes lay still near the window, no morning breeze ever cares to pay her a visit anymore, nor are the gusts in the afternoon able to move them. the purple dust blew away and so she disappeared. she had warned me, but i would never believe her. the apparition stopped coming to my dreams.

..a normal day at office

"hello!" a voice said behind my back. "hello!" i greeted back without turning my head. thump! came the sound of the bag which she dumped on her desk. i looked through the corner of my left eye, without turning my head, still pretending to be deeply engrossed with the stuff on my monitor.

She started off with the morning ritual she performs everyday, touching the invisible feet of idols kept on the right corner of her cubicle, adjusting the fone among other things which is kept on the left, taking out her notebook and placing it at the center, fixing a few cables and dragging her chair to the right place and finally dumping herself into it with a sigh!. By this time, my eyes rolled back to the screen in front of me and i wait for one of us to break the silence. mostly it is she, asking me to look at some forwarded emaiil which is supposed to be good or funny in general sense. most of them are ok and a few horrible.

but i was not waiting for all this. aha! it came now. first sneeze of the day, followed by a burst of incessant sneezes which i never tried to keep count of. i just imagine all the tiny particles swarming in the air all around, creating a musky cloud which grows bigger as the day advances. i imagine the beautiful butterfly princess who moved around her garden with butterflies surrounding her wherever she goes. probably a slight deviation here.

arms wide open

oh..what dreamy eyes...like the twinkling of the sky on a cloudless night..filled with all the thoughts i like to hear but never a word which i could hear...those lips quevering like a branch on the old mountain tree..shaken..stirred by the rusty winds...a sweet smell of the last evening's perfume that you had put on...and the tears rolling down your eyes..oh yes..it had rained last night and the droplets on the leaves are falling down..slowly so ever...it could contain no longer...never so free...never so careless...never in despair and never without words on your lips...you dont need a shoulder to hide them...you dont need ears to listen to your words...like a whisper it spreads...and so has it shaken me...and never so before had i dreamt of you...and never the thought of having you by my side left me for a moment...you know where are the eyes all looking for you...you know where the arms are still wide open...still hoping...some day they will be filled

reasons...for what reasons?

how painful it is sometimes to find out reasons for things...and what for...to be forgotten the next day. the thing i am quoting below was something i got from some movie, but was apt to my mindset then,
"..there was a man who built a railway track. for some reasons he built the tracks in a straight line, without any curves in it. i dont know for what reasons he built it so. reasons are easily forgotten..".

damn cards...

the wind blew, came through the window towards my table, where lay a structure made of playing cards which i build in the morning. it was tall, broad and beautiful. now it lay on the table, just cards no structure. whom should i blame, the person who opened the window, the person who took the curtain for washing, the wind which had to blow this way only or myself who built the structure. i dont know. most likely no one. all i know is that i had a beautiful structure in the morning and now it all lay devastated on the table top. and as i see the cards fallen, helpless and ugly, my courage to rebuild it withers and fear of seeing it destroyed creeps in. how will it matter if i rebuild it or not...how will it matter if it stood or fell again....it will still be cards...which i wanted to give a shape...a shape which i wanted....the wind disliked...the person who opened the window disliked...and the person who took the curtain for washing disliked....the cards were helpless like me.

magic flowers

exhausted and drenched in sweat, she returned home. it was a long and tiring day for her but never so satisfying. as she lay down on the bed which she had bought with the bounty of money she had from the last summer's sale, she immediately fell asleep. it was early morning when she woke up. first sunrays of the day had seeped in through the unmended roof of the hut which had no windows, for she had heard that fortune escapes through windows. the earthen pot which she carries every day to sell yogurt lay near the foot of her bed. she always had kept two pots. one she kept hidden in the mud closet covered with jute sack, filled with milk and seeds of yogurt of the previous day. no cats ever knew about this secret of hers. they only knew about her generosity of the other pot. every night she would come back home and keep the leftover in the pot near the foot of her bed. always in the same quantity and same taste, for she had some magic of knowing how much it will sell everyday and she would prepare only a little extra. the cat would come in the night through the unlocked door, as she kept it every night. his arrival never disturbing her sleep, but she always found the leftover at the bottom of the pot gone in the morning and a feather of an unknown bird beside the pot. she started her day with her folded hands and eyes looking at the stone which contained the spirit of all her ancesters. then she would look into the pot and the feather, curse the unworthy cat which always left the feather of some bird which he might have killed, but she would preserve the feather like every lover preserves the roses of his first love.

as the sound of sweeping from the house beside hers is heard, she leaves her hut with the pot filled with fresh yogurt on her head. filling the streets of the village with her own meloncholic sound. children would come out of their homes, run after her, call her names, throwing mud pebbles at the pot on her head, missing all the shots, and she would never mind. as she walked from door to door, her steps growing slower and slower, million thoughts filling her mind, until she reaches the last of the house on that village street where her feet felt heavy, her eyes tired and only a small was left for the cat, she would rest. she would rest under the old gullar tree, laden with flowers of all colours, blue, purple, magenta, white, yellow and colours that they had never seen before. the most beautiful of all the trees in the village and villages around it. they told stories about it, worshipped it, lighted incandesence at its roots, tied threads around it and she always rested in peace after a tiresome day.

one day, she was resting under the shade of that tree and the day was sunny. there was no breeze and no rustling of leaves in the tree. everything lay still and barren and she slept under the tree, her pot lying beside her, containing little yogurt for the cat. It was a sunny day and nobody passed by for a long time, all the dogs on the street had taken shelter in some shade and there was no sound to be heard. A purple flower broke off from the branch of the tree and fell in the pot.

The next morning when she woke up, said her prayer with closed eyes and looked at the pot beside the foot of her bed. there was no feather left by the cat that day and the small amount of yogurt which she always left for the cat lay there at the bottom of the pot. she felt worried and left for the day's work. that day when she returned after selling, earning a little extra from what she earned everyday till now, she found her pot still filled to the same level where she had started. no matter how many extra doors she knocked that day, she was not able to sell whole of it. she was worried and she could not stay longer under that tree. she left for home and slept, waking up next day with the hope that everything would be same. but it wasn't. no cats came by and she had no feathers to add to her treaser. she sat under the gullar and weapt her heart out. but nothing changed. day by day her earning increased but she never returned home selling whole of yogurt which she had made. she mended her house and made two windows in the house with the fortune she earned, but she lived worried and grew tired of those worries day by day. one afternoon, when she was sitting under the tree, she remembered the day when she had dreamt of a flower dropping in her pot from the branches of that tree. she cursed the tree for that day and for that flower, she cursed it for bringing her sorrow and worry. she cried out aloud, " o unworthy and charismatic tree! were you ashamed of my ugly but happy life? or did you want to see the whole world as beautiful and rich as you? but you forgot that your beauty is incomplete if there remains no ugliness as me. your kindness has no meaning without my curse. your beauty has marred your mind and made you insane. you want to see everything good and fair and rich and beautiful. but you have sacrificed my contended self. you have brought me great sorrow. you have killed my beloved cat and stolen his feathers. i wish you will never bear any flowers upon you. i wish you be laden with ugly fruits. like my pot of yogurt which never gets empty now, but earns me no satisfaction, no one will ever see your flowers now, but you will be always full of fruits."

the children on the streets remembered the tree thereafter as a haunted tree with no flowers, which lay there barren and deserted, asked by no one, watered by no one since the day it was cursed. no one in the village had seen a single flower on that tree and they left it deserted because they considered it ugly without flowers, covered only with small berries like fruit, infected by the curse of demons of ill luck. The old lady would still rest under the same tree and no flowers fell in her pot thereafter. And they would share their solitude for a while. she, always tired and the tree always watchful and meloncholic with no flowers on it, only fruits.

.....hope of the fish eyes

the lamp post, the tree in front of my house and the van parked outside stayed still in that lonely long night, as did my solitary figure in that night of perpetual darkness. nothing seemed longer and more faithful to me than that night which has stayed in me till i died, till i suffocated myself in the amnesty of the god and the devil which created the fire of eternal inexistence of a lost and meandering life. but the hope still lived, torturing me, tormenting me yet in some way completing me and giving me a reason to live a life of this inexistence.
the wind had stopped, so had rain and the last vehicle on the street had passed before dawn broke, leaving the fluttering leaves dead still on the road, when i dropped my last drop of tears, when i decided to drop no more, when i was tired of sobbing, when nobody heard me cry out the sorrow of a fool, when the drops of tear dried and left a tar sticking in the bottom of my heart, when i inhaled the longest breath i had ever breathed. probably i was thinking of drowning the parchment of an unheard love in the tears i shed, probably i was thinking of blowing away the torn pieces of the parchment of an unheard love, probably i was thinking of burying the parchment of an unheard love in the secrecy when the last of the vehicles had passed that street. tears stopped and i breathed in till i could take no more air inside, unaware if everything was as i was thinking them probably. i had not the faintest of idea if i was going to sleep a little or wake up and brush my teeth which felt saline by morning. i had not the faintest of idea that i was going to live after that in the fog of that improbability and heedless ceremony of living. every new attemp to shatter things meeting a glimpse of hope, hope of those fish eyes which had trapped me inside the sphere of the sorceress. that hope didnt have the slightest of the novelty to take pity on my aching stomach and my limping brain. and so i trudged on, i trudged on, not knowing that if the hope of the fish eyes will let me drop out of that sorceress sphere and see its beauty for once and admire it, love it, kiss it, hate it, fawn it, hold it, hold it forever so that it could never entrap me in that sphere again

...another paradise

there, there he was standing again. i could see only the silhoutte, a figure standing in the alley, his back towards me. not running any more, no words spoken, silent, like the silence after a big explosion but no signs of ruin, not wanting to paint anything else, but, but still carrying a bucket of paint in his one hand, hanging loosely by one side and another hand holding the brush, brush which looked dipped in fresh paint and blank, empty walls, standing tall beside him. a light from the front, which he was blocking. this made anything else not visible. he has walked this long alley, alley of life perhaps. painted many colors on the wall beside him. sometimes whispering to himself, as if he had found some companion and didnt want to loose her, always consoling himself that he got responses. probably another whisper or a brush stroke on the same wall that he had painted. it made him happy. it made him sad. it took him long, long time to realise that he was walking alone, everyone was walking alone, muttering to themselves, keeping themselves talking to the phantom they had imagined, or by now, real perhaps. but he wanted an answer now and all he could get was empty walls ahead. same long and tall standing walls, not listening, not replying, staying dumb, filled with nothing else but his own whispers and, and patches of colors, which sometimes looked lively with bright colors for good times that he had spent with them and darker, darker still for the times he feared that something called truth lies ahead, no one was listening to him, it was all his own whispers. sometimes he looked at the walls with a look which said that some one had just smeared the wall with paint, all patch works, ugly, loathesome. he wanted to rub it all. he wanted to start afresh. this time painting the walls with bright colors only, but he was afraid that he could not do it walking alone in that alley. but he was afraid to listen to his own whispers again, for he will be again standing there as he is standing now, a dark silhoutte, his back towards me, not running any more, no words spoken, silent....empty walls....mocking at himself.

...an old memory

wind was pushing his face, hairs all flying back, he was trying hard to see the road ahead with his half open eyes, trees on the sides were fast vanishing behind, and they were leaving behind one after another milestones, however clouds were still fixated to the same position in the sky, and there he was sitting on the horizontal rod of papa's bycycle, legs crossed, holding the front tightly with his little hands and shouting, "faster papa, faster!".
it takes almost a quarter and an half of an hour to cross village to village and reach, where papa teaches kids like him. it was his special day. he was taking him to the place he works. mom had prepared parathas that morning and wrapped them in old newspaper and then put them in plastic bag, so that oil do not drip out and stain the bag. it was there lying fresh in papa's bag, swinging loosely by the handle, his eyes swinging along with that while he watched it.
he had woken up early for this day. took shower and wore clothes which mom keeps safe only for special occasions. he waited for papa to get ready and asking him all this time to hurry up while he got ready. he had made this an special day for everyone in the hut. to his relief they were ready to depart. he took out the bicycle from the verandah, where it is kept in the night. he dusted it with a rag, then sat himself on the seat and lifted him up to sit in the front. his first reaction was to press that round shaped 'ghanti' fixed on the handle. it gave a sound, trin! trin! and he imitated that with another trin! trin! mom kissed him on his forhead and bid them farewell. she was standing there waving her hand till they disappeared on the next corner. he kept saying something all the way. sometimes asking something. sometimes singing song. and all the while his voice sounded like ba ba ba ba when the bicycle went over from one puddle to another in the village road.
sun had kept himself off for the day, for him to enjoy the day under a cloudy sky. they stopped for tea on the way. more because he was crying that his legs have started paining. they took tea and biscuits, stood on the either side of the bicycle's carrier and he asked many questions while papa finished tea. it was difficult for him to keep up with his questions. they started off again. he remained silent this time. less because papa was not answering him, more because he was tired and feeling sleepy. it was more than half an hour now, they were close to their destination. he could see more vehicles passing them as they reached the town's outskirts, but nothing interested him by now, while he folded his hands and rested them on the handle. and he was lost in some other world of his. where there were no vehicles, no trees, no schools, no puddles on the road, no wind, however there were fruits and chocolates there, which he had seen on the way, and parathas too, wrapped in that newspaper, now unbundling before his eyes. the bicycle stopped and papa said, "we have reached, chimpu.", while he rested his left foot on the ground. he lifted his head up and saw a board which read, "barbigha uchh vidyala".

..in the habit of saying hello

It was 8 am in the morning. Quite an unusual day for me, as I had woken up early that day and went for a cup of ginger tea and smoke. By my face anyone could have told that I had not got fresh before coming to the shop, but no one could tell that I didn’t brush my teeth. Anyways, I asked for a cup of tea and lit my cigarette standing beside a tree stained with beetle spits. There was dog lying there on the other corner of the shop, his sleep disturbed by early morning traffic and was itching his ears. I was so much lost in watching that dog that I forgot that I had ordered for tea. I was shaken by my hand to hand me the cup.

Minutes later a man in his late thirties came there for tea or something. I didn’t notice that. But I saw that he was nicely dressed and well trimmed hair and mustache. He might have taken bath as it looked from his appearance. Who knows he might have applied simply water on his hair. He had a matching pair of brown shoes with the color of his belt. And like the most Bangaloreans was carrying a identity badge in his front pocket. As a part of my habit I was so lost in analyzing his appearance that I almost missed him staring at me too. Probably because of smoke. Pollution is really a big problem in Bangalore and now this nasty smoke. Forget it, I wont leave this habit I guess. Oh, where was I. Ahan, the young man staring at me. I said hello. He said hello and smiled. After a minute of silence he asked which place do I belong to. I said Bihar. Now as usual, I was expecting that I wont have to say a word to carry on the talk. He stood there speaking for another fifteen minutes about his experiences in Bihar. And like most of these stories, his story too started from his train experience(no pun intended). After he finished his talking he said not to mind his words, that was what happened with them. I sympathized with him ‘as usual’, saying that these things are quite common place in Bihar, there is nothing he should be ashamed of talking about. He nodded in affirmation. He shook my hand and left in a hurry. I was watching the dog. He was still itching his ears. He was still trying hard to sleep.

caged

locked in a cage i was thinking of getting out as soon as possible. time was running out and death was taking me over. i held the bars tightly and tried to pull apart to make room to come out. only to find that it was too strong and i failed. i was sweating and fear of death made me cry. i can not die now. i can not simply sit locked up in this cage. i have to come out no matter what. the familiar faces started appearing before me. i don't know whether they were making me panic even more or giving me strength. i sat down and leaned my head against the bars and started breathing heavily. i had never breathed so heavily.how did i land up in this cage? who put me in here? was it my foolishness? was somebody conspiring against me? i could think of nobody. i was not crying anymore. i was not even breathing heavily. everything seemed normal. it seems i had accepted that cage.

...an old one...thankfully it was saved too from my habit of deleting everything....i guess one day i ll delete the blog too :D

_she_sells_sea_shells_

her face was all yellow by the light of candles burning all around. the dim lights of candle made it hard for me to guess the colour of her gown like dress. but it surely made it even more beatiful than it wud have really been. she was carefully polishing the sea shells that she was selling. and to her distress there were no buyers that evening.

i guess it was neither the moon nor sea waves that was making that beach beautiful. it was all her solitary presence. it of course was her solitude but it was filling that evening on the beach with life and colours.

..an empty thought

one last mile...one last yard...one last step...stretching myself to the possibility of covering some distance more..my fatigued muscles were crying out in pain. was the pain beautiful as some term it? i dont know. i came to a halt and bent forward, with my hands on hip. i was panting for breathe. a tiny droplet of sweat trickled down my nose giving me a cold feeling. a few more trickled down and settled near my eyelids, a minute before i was thinking about stetching myself to one last step and now i was left with an empty feeling. i turned back and looked straight. i had come too far. was everything blinding before my eyes? i didnt have any answers. all i had was a numb cold feeling. feeling of being lost. feeling of left alone. feeling of something unknown. i didnt know how to term it. i didnt know what to think of it. but it was an unsettling feeling. a feeling to haunt me for the times to come. it has left me a hollow self and i dont even know about it.

no..not about anyone specific...had written it randomly..i think in my freshmen year....

you dont make me smile any more
you dont make my heart cry any more
laying back with my pillow on my back
i still think about you sometimes...
i wonder those memories are good or bad...
it all just passed by...
you dont make me smile any more
but your thoughts still make me sleepless
when it all just passes by...
probably it does not just pass by...
it just stays and stays a little longer
i sit back and light a ciggarette
in the hope that old memories just
come and go by
only to find that it stays and stays a little longer..
you dont make me smile anymore
you dont make my heart cry anymore

....silly thoughts (an old one again)

holding my fingers and walking beside me, my eight year old cousin was smiling. intently looking at his face i was wondering what thoughts were occupying him. probably some old joke or some silly moments, that he was thinking of. I guess twelve years older to him i am no different to him in this respect. there have been many a times when i was sitting all alone, sipping tea in the balcony and just smiling probably without any reason that others could find out. most of the times a silly one.

an old one...somehow it was not deleted by me..

looking at nothingness of the dark my mind was filled with some thoughts. probably darker than the darkness of night. and i found no stars to guide me through that dark path. i was thinking about the day before on the railway station. this was not the first time that i had been in such a situation. i was buying some eatables from a howker. An urchin came upto me and asked for something to eat. he reminded me of countless occasions when i had seens those unknown faces in the crowd. and by the time i cud delve deeper into my thoughts he demanded again. this time with a little hesitation. i gave him whatever i had in m y hand. he walked away pleasantly thrusting whatever i gave in his half torn pocket. i tried to concentrate on the magazine i was reading. i cud not find any single interesting article in it. with nothing else to do i leaned against the window and started watching the crowd. a few hurrying past the train and a few like me just looking at the crowd. that face again appeared somewhere from the crowd following the same set of procedures which he used with me. after a few denials he hit the jackpot again. at one time i thought why is he doing this when he has got enough to eat. i strongly disapproved his action. and this time i cud find time enough to go deeper in my thoughts. is it always the situation that forces a person to do what he is doing? doesn't his self reminds him or provokes him to think about what he is doing? probably marred by the harsh conditions of his life he is never able to think about it. And people as well hardly ever think about them as well never wanting to trouble themselves with the burden of these thoughts, dismissing them as just another trouble hounding them. Do they not deseve to live a better life? Do they not deserve to dream? Or their expectations from life is as little as we think it to be insufficient for a living? Do I sound like a fucking humanitarian? Still my problem is that i cannot stop myself from thinking about them too much and too often.