Friday, December 27, 2013


'I don't know what's happening to me, I have lost all my words.'

She just looked at me silently. I knew she knew what I was saying.

'It's almost as if, what I most enjoyed doing isn't something I really enjoy anymore. Despite that realization, though, I really want to.'

She looked at the sky. She sighed.

'I want to write. But it is rather like, writing doesn't want to be bothered anymore. Even if I want to bother it, it's resisting. I can feel it, or rather hear it, telling me to go away. It's sending out vibrations at me, telepathically telling me to get lost. I'm not sure if I should be sad or relieved. That's what confuses me.'

The corner of her mouth turned wryly. She knew exactly what I felt. And despite the frustrating silence, I didn't want it to be anything else. This is how it was with us. We just understood.

'I always feel that writing was my passion. But how could it be a passion if I let it go so easily? That would indicate I don't really want it, right? That I don't really care? Or maybe not. Maybe it's because I care too much, and I know I can't force it to happen. It would be like forcing someone you loved to serve you at every whim and fancy, always at your beck and call. Maybe.'

She giggled. Shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no. May be. May. Spring.

'Well, yeah. Sure. Maybe you're right. I guess it's just a season where I can let the cold cover me down, where my thoughts buried over with snow can find its roots again, maybe let my thoughts simmer and stew, find itself anew. I'll always love writing, but writing needs time to nurture itself as well. I guess we'll find out.'

She, with her bare branches, seemed to nod. She loved her leaves, and would wait for them too.

Saturday, December 14, 2013


On the bus, homeward bound. Nain Parinde floating through the quiet sense of peace settled upon the other commuters on a half-filled bus in the dark evening speckled with twinkling evening lights. Somehow, suddenly, I realized I had been smiling. Smiling to myself, yes, but that simple quiet smile that is less a smile of facial musculature and more of the type surfacing from deep within. My sense of self was imbued with a great contentment.

It occurred to me that half my sense of being might be attributed to the music creating the right mod, and even more beautiful was the sheer coincidence of that exact song playing at that very moment, accompanying my skimming of pages of the old and well-thumbed notebook wherein I write these thoughts; reading old memories of a past self that had been waiting, longing, and dreaming...

The juxtaposition further heightened this sense of tranquility: the longing of the past superimposed on its fulfillment in present. That is when it occurred to me, in gauging the credibility of my mellowed euphoria, that while I was exquisitely content for various wonderful reasons, I could not yet say that I was entirely satisfied on all counts; lingering on periphery was still yet a great void that stretched on to a distance immeasurable, a lingering longing in hopes of reunion, a pause of bated breath -- it occurred to me, that this was contentment. This balance, so precarious, teetering, yet maintained, this acceptance, this gratitude, this pervading sense of self, in all ways possible, past, present and future, all threaded together through, within and extending beyond all sense of measure, yes, this was contentment.