It’s been a while I’ve been planning to do this but somehow never got around to doing it. Each time I would think of a tomorrow when I would get down to business. It’s anyone’s guess that, that particular tomorrow, never came. It is human nature to procrastinate. So can’t actually blame myself. A lot of people have been pestering me to write something; anything. They say it would be a cathartic experience and I would be a saner person if I did. I really don’t know if I could get any more or less saner than I am, but yes, I do miss writing. All of a sudden I find the only things I seem to be writing are academic answers. Not that I’m doing a bad job of them. Just that it’s all I seem to be doing. Reading is another thing I seem to be taken-up with. Read Milan Kundera’s The Book of laughter and forgetting and it was quite an experience I must admit. While reading the book there were many instances when I felt like, it’s rather difficult to describe actually, well let’s just say it wasn’t a very pleasant feeling. Then there were moments when I felt, “Why the hell am I reading this book?” and then others when I felt like the author had lost it! All the laughing and forgetting had gone to his head! One couldn’t blame the man either; imagine living under the conditions people did in the time he wrote. Then there were incidents that would repulse most but intrigued me. May be people are this way. Who knows? I for one felt like I must get out more often. But what struck me when I finally finished the novel was the sheer artistry with which all these bizarre events had be strung together. So much so that when each is viewed in retrospect linked to the other it really didn’t seem all that bizarre after all. What really took me by surprise is that at the end of it all I could relate to the emotions that underlined all these bizarre and not so bizarre events. I could go on, but actually that wasn’t why I began in the first place.
The whole big Idea was to try my hand at writing something. I have always held that poetry comes easier to me than prose. I lack the patience to write prose. That I shall work on. This is something I came-up with last night. I really don’t know if its cathartic and neither do I wish to sit down and make a Freudian analysis of it. A poem doesn’t always have to be about someone, but it has to be about something and more than just one thing.

12th October 2008
11:35pm.

For hours on end

we used to speak

Of things, strange, as,

a faucet leak.

Now all you seem

to do is whine-

“Give me back the

things that were mine.”

Bring me this today

And that tomorrow.

You say I am “Mean”

With endless sorrow!

Not a word I say-

In silence comply.

Because when I ask

You’ll have no reply.