Skip to main content

Not Very Unlike You

I love life. Not that my life is any better than yours. I still love it. I do not judge my life against what it has in store me. It is neutral kind of love and it is constant. It is like breathing and will be so until it leave me wanting some day, for one more lungful of life.

Sometime I win, mostly lose. Some days I am happy, other days are sad, and like you, I do not remember most of the in-between days in my life.  I believe in God, and I love to fall in love. I respect those who love me for they are so wonderfully patient, I do not hate those who ignore me, I can't see things about me the way they do, hence, probably what they do to me is in someway right too. I am not sure if I could die for a cause, I am for sure too fickle to live by one. Some days I cry for my fellow human beings, most days I cry for myself. 

No, I don’t go ahead and take that plunge; I am yet to do those special things I always wanted to do in my life. I am sure I will never end up living those moments I wanted myself to live. In this un-living is the possibility of living… and this fuel my dreams and fires my love… for life. 

I will someday be all that I wanted to be, that someday is many days away, and I am thankful to keep it that way.

Comments

  1. very uplifting - something I needed to hear :-)

    ReplyDelete
  2. In the words of I Do Not Remember, "Why do today what you can do tomorrow?"

    ReplyDelete
  3. Rajesh, getting close to a phase of dormancy in writing??? (too blunt, sorry, but couldn't help asking; I really hope that am mistaken)

    Way to go!

    ReplyDelete
  4. RG, If you define Dormancy as the pause between two seasons in writing, you are bang on. It works in cycles, like seasons :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.