Feb 16th 2009

Last night, I was going through my old files and found this in my diary. So many things have happened in a year and yet it seems nothing has changed. It seems like a beautiful thought, but perhaps it is not.
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21:57 Monday, February 16, 2009

(I’ve missed writing here, these 10 odd days.) Lots of things swirling in my mind. Just finished Murakami’s ‘Dance Dance Dance’. You gotta dance baby, follow the rhythm, go with the flow, the world will take care of itself. When reading a good writer or a poet, I feel connected to the world. To the soul of the world. This happened with ‘Snow’. With this one too. I was barren without words. And these writer’s, writing about their world, were like silent rain falling on my parched surface. I wanted more, to be drenched, to be alive once more. Perhaps I am. Last night, a poem came to me. And I knew it from heart. Two more, half complete, three more, yet to start.

So, am I back with, amongst words again? Maybe, maybe not. I’m not feeling quite right. Something within, I want to work, but so many things are held up at the office that working seems a distant possibility. We all are just going through the motions. There is a wait lingering in the atmosphere these days. Something is going to happen. But nothing happens. “Nothing never moves”, she says.

All the things are one, all the ones are multiple things.

Don’t know what to write, what to say, what to think.

Yesterday was Sunday. Seems so far off now. Had a very good day with her. We roamed around in Kamla Nagar, did little bit of shopping, had lunch at the new Subway, then I went to see her off near her place. After that, emptiness.

I was standing near the ground level window, beside the Media Mart outlet at the Kashmere Gate metro station. There is a window overlooking a little green patch of turf and then the metro premises boundary cuts off the mayhem of Kashmere Gate bus adda. I could see a whole world of people moving about on the other, far side of the window. Going on with their lives, buses to catch, things to sell, talks to talk, and I, with a cup of coffee in my hand observing them, from behind a window. Closer to me, on the glass surface of the window, another lot of people were going on with their lives. Trains to catch, things to buy, talks to talk. But these were ghosts, moving about on a piece of glass.

Or was I the ghost, standing there between the worlds, one real, one unreal and one very real world behind the unreal. I didn’t matter for anybody. Everybody mattered to me. Only she makes me feel alive. When she is around, nobody matters to me. The world is then, as unreal as a phantasm wandering amongst the many alternate worlds.
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And then, she has to leave again. The cycle continues.

22:19
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an anonymous verse

once i jumped

there was no looking back

now it envelopes me

carries me through

and in a symbiotic way

i'm its vessel too

on writing and not writing

lately i've been complaining to myself why i don't get to actually writing down what comes to my mind. and as my volume is quite high, many of those around me get to hear these complaints quite clearly. then early morning today, i got some time alone to gather my thoughts and wrote in my diary. now i want to share it with you.

"am sitting in my room, alone in the house. it is quite. i've opened this journal after a long time. (well, now it's more of a scrap book and less of a journal.) i don't know why i don't write when it pains me so much not to write. thoughts, words, images start forming within my mind the moment i get up. sometimes even before that. perhaps it's plain laziness, a disease that has afflicted me all my life. and when you live with something for so long, you start loving it. now i hush me up by putting laziness on a pedestal and sacrificing many idle moments on her altar. moments, minutes, times that could have been better utilized. but i guess, to be guilty is to be human. maybe the only difference between man and animal is the total absence of guilt in the latter's concious.

perhaps i don't write because of this guilt. maybe its not laziness, but this fear of unraveling myself in front of me. unraveling not in the sense of removing clothes and being ashamed of the sorry state of this physical body, unraveling in the sense of peeling layer after layer of the pretences i've build upon my mental existence.

to write this journal is to know myself, to feel guilty of things i should be doing and am not doing, to feel ashamed at my robot like existence where am human only in the biped, city-living, internet-using, animal-of-a-herd sense. to write is to be the exact opposite of this animal, and still i shy away from it.

maybe, i don't write 'cos i'm lazy, maybe i don't want to come across the human within me."

tell me, dear reader freind, do you also feel the same?