Writing

There is this tricky thing about writing, today in the morning I was thinking about something I wanted to share and was very excited about it. Now, even when I am thinking hard the though evades me. Memory is like a flood of winged seeds passing by you, only when you hold one tight and jot it down, it remains to take root.

There are days when I feel so worthless and worn out. I must confess that such sad days I visit my lady friends who are frustrated and somehow made cooking, gossip and becoming just Mrs xyz their aim in life, I feel some solace. Thats sadistic or whatever but then I fell, well you are not faring too badly. This should not be the thought process, this relative sense of being productive should not be the source of fulfillment but as I said I confess, it sometime is. Then, I try and coax them into applying at places. Reading sometimes opens up another way of life, right now I can see what I do to feel better as I can compare my life with Gandhi. His devotion to working not for some personal gain, but out of compassion he felt for all those who were at the receiving end of an unjust society. Hope these purify my own comfort seeking ways.

Just wondering but maybe the way we were meant to be, just as nature is, animals are, that was the way to exist in the moment. We deconstructed it and created all artificial system, those which were never meant to be and created causes of unhappiness. Reading Gandhi, I am trying to do compulsory physical labor everyday and it feels good. Still scanning the memory files for that cheerful thing I wanted to share!


Heart


Somedays when it is silent and leaves turn dark
I sit by my heart and whisper smiles
It is alright to be tired, brittle and even broken
It is alright to palpitate and tremble
Frozen heart, thaws and speaks to me in tired beats
Yes, it is alright to tear you apart
I smile and we survive pain with pain
Easy as that!

Pic: A migratory bird on a silk cotton tree near my house.