Non-starter

I dunno what is it that makes words drain out when you have a lot to write. I have the world to tell about, and I cant find a single word to start the proceedings. If you dont believe me, this is the fifth time I am starting off, and hopefully the last, before deciding this is the worst start I could ever hope for, only until I started again! I realized my problem, just now. These things I want to write about, are of gargantuan dimensions for sure, but they are so, just for me. Neither do they possess the the quality to create any interest in an audience like the Friends - season 9 could, nor do I possess that quality to make it sound interesting as someone like Dave Barry could. So having realized my handicap, and having set the expectations straight, its much simpler now. I am just going to write for myself.

One would never really get a true list of the happiest moments of his life until the moment he dies, as was seen by Lester Burnham, as was told by Sam Mendez. I liked that scene like no other, and it continues to be one that really touched my heart. You'd recollect If you'd seen American Beauty, and u'd understand me if I say this weekend conatined a few. Probably.

All the fun that is there in a bungee jump is because u know you'll die, if the chord snaps!

I am just going to revel in some precious memories and stop bullshitting.

Trivialities

I'm simply astounded by the capacity of the human mind. To sink down deep into an abyss one day, to bounce back and fly high the next. To love unconditionally. To stubbornly believe in individualism but be ready to sacrifice everything for another. To find strength in the weakest, bleakest of moments, and pass on the strength to someone else. It's then that the age old Hindu notion of mind/soul having an existence of its own begins to make a lot of sense. Its just unacceptable that something of this immense profoundness shall perish along with the mortal physical state of existence. Just unacceptable.

After 2 months long and arduous effort, I managed to finish “The motorcycle diaries” and move on the next book. Arduous was other things, due to which the reading had suffered, and not reading in itself. Otherwise, it’s not at all a tough book to read. The resemblance to “zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” is just in the name. There’s no metaphysics of quality here, just the exuberance of the youth, free spirit, and the making of a revolutionary that was Che Guevara.

So, its “Remains of the day” now. Already liking its crisp britishness, for a change.

The pain, killer.

I had waited a few weeks for this. To find some time. To get out. To be alone. To face the wind. Finally, after all the pitching and rolling, and the settling in of dust, I found myself wanting to get out this last weekend. And I did. I threw the camera into a backpack, and hopped on to the bike, and set out.

And I would never know what was it that I forgot to take this time. I listened to the sound from the exhaust, and all I could hear was the mechanised drone, and not sweet music. I missed the wind on my face, then realized heck, I had the helmet on. What was the helmet doing on my face now??? I felt irritated at the thumpings from the road, transmitted uncomfortably through some delicate parts of my body where it came in contact with the bike's seat. I watched in silent indifference as I saw fishermen, with their precise, dance like steps threw their nets into the water, neither feeling the temptation to suddenly park the bike and run along to get a snap nor see what catch was in there for me!

Everything looked a pale, dull grey.

I walked along the beach, stared at the lighthouse. The sight could be termed as something equivalent of 'magnificient' or 'awe-inspiring', had it been another day. another time of my life. The green, blue and beachsand of the land succumbed meekily before the ever-expansive might of blue sky, stretching all around, the view from the beach was indeed inspiring. But I couldn't just find that inspiration today.

I watched my footprints in sand behind me. One pair of feet. It looked desolate. Wanting. I kept on walking briskly, to pacify a throbbing heart. There were several sights, multi-colored catamarans lined up along the shore... children playing atop them, the faint lines of a liner in distance against the red cherry of the sun... But my camera remained inside the sack. Nothing. Nothing can fill that void today.

Some other day, perhaps.

Some day!

I used to wonder what's with the April Fool's day on April 1st. Until I met this person and she told me when her birthday was. Then it all began to make sense.

Happy Birthday, N!