I was making my usual morning drink in the break room today and suddenly I realized - I am obsessive compulsive when I clean the espresso machine as instructed. I'm most particular about it. And then there is my colleague who cares enough for the environment to turn off all the superfluous lights around; he even bikes to work every day! He saw me cleaning the espresso machine one day and commended my "conscientious" act.
I care enough for my community to do the token "spare the air" acts once in a while; plant a tree; manage without a plastic bag; etc.. But then eventually I forget to keep up the good work. Most people I know are the same. Every person probably tries, in the times his consciousness is awake to help with causes he believes in. At some point though his vigilance would drop and he reverts to his old ways.
So what goes into the making of a true activist? To be conscious at every moment to follow in a chosen path, does one need to be obsessive compulsive? Are all super fighters for causes obsessive compulsive to some extent?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Crystal Ball
Turmoil. That's what best described her current state of affairs. It was a long time since she last had a restful night, undisturbed by her thoughts in those long wakeful moments before the secrets of the night took over and threw her out into a new day. She was at her wits end and today had been the breaking point. She was on her knees now, with her eyes shut tight, praying with all her might. Hoping for a ray of insight. A glimpse of the future.
She slept for a long time that night. A kaleidoscope of events running through her dreams. Dreams she surprisingly remembered the next day. She felt more relaxed now. More in control of her fortunes. She had made up her mind somewhere in the night about what she wanted to do next. She finally found peace. She changed jobs and felt better at the new place. It was the same work; only better hours. Left her with more time for herself. Time even to hang out with friends in the evenings. She found she was much better at making decisions these days. More relaxed about it. Like the time when she knew exactly which restaurant she wanted them to go to that night. Where she met her long lost friend. It was almost like she knew she would.
Her days were more mellow now. No more uncertainty; which was surprising. Before she never knew what she wanted to do next; nor could she make decisions as easily as she did now. It felt good. This lack of agonizing over details and what ifs. Her days were more constructed; more ordered. Life was sailing smooth. A little too smooth.
She soon realized she missed the anticipation which went hand in hand with the guessing. The dreams of possibilities. She wanted the charm of the unknown and the novelty of chance. She soon got to thinking how much fun she used to have mulling over the future and building castles even if they were sometimes on thin air. She started fretting over the dull monotony of life, the lack of ripples. Fretting against the calm with the dearth of winds. That night found her back on her knees. Her eyes shut tight and praying...
She slept for a long time that night. A kaleidoscope of events running through her dreams. Dreams she surprisingly remembered the next day. She felt more relaxed now. More in control of her fortunes. She had made up her mind somewhere in the night about what she wanted to do next. She finally found peace. She changed jobs and felt better at the new place. It was the same work; only better hours. Left her with more time for herself. Time even to hang out with friends in the evenings. She found she was much better at making decisions these days. More relaxed about it. Like the time when she knew exactly which restaurant she wanted them to go to that night. Where she met her long lost friend. It was almost like she knew she would.
Her days were more mellow now. No more uncertainty; which was surprising. Before she never knew what she wanted to do next; nor could she make decisions as easily as she did now. It felt good. This lack of agonizing over details and what ifs. Her days were more constructed; more ordered. Life was sailing smooth. A little too smooth.
She soon realized she missed the anticipation which went hand in hand with the guessing. The dreams of possibilities. She wanted the charm of the unknown and the novelty of chance. She soon got to thinking how much fun she used to have mulling over the future and building castles even if they were sometimes on thin air. She started fretting over the dull monotony of life, the lack of ripples. Fretting against the calm with the dearth of winds. That night found her back on her knees. Her eyes shut tight and praying...
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Contemplation
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.
- Henry David Thoreau
*******
How my actions mock me.
- Henry David Thoreau
*******
How my actions mock me.
Monday, June 8, 2009
My Treasure
Its been a while since I last wrote and have been wondering what to write about next... Wanted to try out writing a story. A short one but none the less longer than anything I've penned, no typed, lately. I started on something. But then am not comfortable publishing it.. So have kept it archived till the moment I feel I can show it to the world or finally send it to its resting place in the trash.
And so I have been looking for something to write about. And at some point side-tracked and started wondering what material possession has been with me the longest. And got a surprising answer - a small stick of sandalwood. It has had a very interesting and long journey.
My uncle used to work in the construction business. At one time they were building somewhere close to sandalwood forests in Karnataka. There was something about smugglers trying to get away with a truck load of sandalwood and getting caught and my uncle somehow landing up with a few chunks of the sandalwood. My mother being my uncle's sister obviously ended up getting some of it. And me being my Mom's precious younger one got the benefit of it.
I have always loved the smell of sandalwood -- not the overpowering perfumes or soaps; but the real deal - ground out fresh sandalwood paste. It smells divine. Its probably the only thing that I ever had the patience to sit and grind. And so every once in a long while I end up pulling out this small marble slab I have and the sandalwood stick and grind out some paste and apply it to my face. And sometimes I end up sleeping with it still on my face. The smell sticks on the pillow and I keep getting whiffs of it for long after.
It happens that I have had these two pieces, the sandalwood stick and the little slab of marble with me from when I first left home for my undergrad studies. They have traveled with me since, crossing seas and ended up on the continent of N America. From the grungy apartment in New Brunswick, NJ to the fancy locations in Bay Area, CA. In all that time almost forgotten but packed away safely while moving. I rarely use them; but for the few times I do remember and pull it out, its worth all the extra care I assign for it.
Lost in the cares of the present, it has been more than a year since I last pulled out the piece of sandalwood and smelled it. My sandalwood has a long long journey left to travel before it finally gets ground down to nothing and rests in peace.
And so I have been looking for something to write about. And at some point side-tracked and started wondering what material possession has been with me the longest. And got a surprising answer - a small stick of sandalwood. It has had a very interesting and long journey.
My uncle used to work in the construction business. At one time they were building somewhere close to sandalwood forests in Karnataka. There was something about smugglers trying to get away with a truck load of sandalwood and getting caught and my uncle somehow landing up with a few chunks of the sandalwood. My mother being my uncle's sister obviously ended up getting some of it. And me being my Mom's precious younger one got the benefit of it.
I have always loved the smell of sandalwood -- not the overpowering perfumes or soaps; but the real deal - ground out fresh sandalwood paste. It smells divine. Its probably the only thing that I ever had the patience to sit and grind. And so every once in a long while I end up pulling out this small marble slab I have and the sandalwood stick and grind out some paste and apply it to my face. And sometimes I end up sleeping with it still on my face. The smell sticks on the pillow and I keep getting whiffs of it for long after.
It happens that I have had these two pieces, the sandalwood stick and the little slab of marble with me from when I first left home for my undergrad studies. They have traveled with me since, crossing seas and ended up on the continent of N America. From the grungy apartment in New Brunswick, NJ to the fancy locations in Bay Area, CA. In all that time almost forgotten but packed away safely while moving. I rarely use them; but for the few times I do remember and pull it out, its worth all the extra care I assign for it.
Lost in the cares of the present, it has been more than a year since I last pulled out the piece of sandalwood and smelled it. My sandalwood has a long long journey left to travel before it finally gets ground down to nothing and rests in peace.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Way Back Home
A decade. That was how long it was since she had been back. But now she was there to stay. The one place she always considered her haven, her safe place. Everywhere she turned to looked the same. Yet different. The familiarity was there, yet everything was new.
The kids she had roamed the streets with were away. Far far away. Living the life she had left behind. On a whim. A longing. She had no idea how she intended to fill her days. But she knew she had to find work again. Hopefully make new friends. Would she be able to settle in and adjust to the new settings, the old life? She had loved it at one time, thrived in it. The place she had known as a kid, but was unknown territory to her now as a grown up. The changes were daunting. She had heard stories about how things worked here. Stories which were far from encouraging.
The unknowns. They had held her back. Her adventurous streak that took her away originally had gone missing. Buried in the life she had gotten used to, in uncertainties, in cares and domesticity, in the foreign she had made familiar grounds. It had taken forces outside her control to uproot her once again. To take up that which she once sought. Change. Challenge.
The kids she had roamed the streets with were away. Far far away. Living the life she had left behind. On a whim. A longing. She had no idea how she intended to fill her days. But she knew she had to find work again. Hopefully make new friends. Would she be able to settle in and adjust to the new settings, the old life? She had loved it at one time, thrived in it. The place she had known as a kid, but was unknown territory to her now as a grown up. The changes were daunting. She had heard stories about how things worked here. Stories which were far from encouraging.
The unknowns. They had held her back. Her adventurous streak that took her away originally had gone missing. Buried in the life she had gotten used to, in uncertainties, in cares and domesticity, in the foreign she had made familiar grounds. It had taken forces outside her control to uproot her once again. To take up that which she once sought. Change. Challenge.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Scars... and their Stories
I was sitting down and twaddling the other day and chanced to spot the scar on my knee and broke out smiling at the memory associated with it. On the way back home from school I was shoved by a bull from behind and fell flat onto my nose! I have since strongly believed bulls get enraged on seeing red, even though the only red on me that day was on my buckle - to represent my house colour.
I have a ton load of scars, some from before I could do harm to myself. Like my pierced ears. Apparently my brother threw a fit, scattered a bag of husk all around, and cried his eyes out when they were getting them pierced! Every scar has a story and however stupid the story, it is somehow a fond memory. Whats with scars and the pride associated with them? Like right now -- I love telling the stories about my scars :D Even though some of them are far from being battle scars - like the ones on my fingers from having cut myself while cooking. Or the one on my leg from when I was stupid enough to stand it right next to the muffler of a bike just after we got back from a ride on it. Is it pride or just fondness? for the memories associated with it. Whichever it is, the slightest thing seems to be getting me into flashback mode these days :D
So I'll sign off here, with a smile that's just that little bit straighter thanks to the knock I got on my head when I was tall enough for my front tooth to get chipped off and lose its crookedness on the wall around our home :)
I have a ton load of scars, some from before I could do harm to myself. Like my pierced ears. Apparently my brother threw a fit, scattered a bag of husk all around, and cried his eyes out when they were getting them pierced! Every scar has a story and however stupid the story, it is somehow a fond memory. Whats with scars and the pride associated with them? Like right now -- I love telling the stories about my scars :D Even though some of them are far from being battle scars - like the ones on my fingers from having cut myself while cooking. Or the one on my leg from when I was stupid enough to stand it right next to the muffler of a bike just after we got back from a ride on it. Is it pride or just fondness? for the memories associated with it. Whichever it is, the slightest thing seems to be getting me into flashback mode these days :D
So I'll sign off here, with a smile that's just that little bit straighter thanks to the knock I got on my head when I was tall enough for my front tooth to get chipped off and lose its crookedness on the wall around our home :)
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The Enchantress
The night was dark as soot, save for the solitary candle burning inside the house. The balmy evening buzzing with night life. The kids looking for avenues to burn their last vestiges of energy. For mischief to brew before they tucked in for the night. They would gather around her like moths turning to light.
The roads were less traveled - outdoors were peaceful, private. The skies were clear and the stars could still be counted. Sitting in the verandah, the cool air lulling, her flowing words stilled young limbs and held them captive around her. Drawn into the intricacies being unraveled, they forgot all else. Caught up in the magic she wove.
The sudden glaring lights as the power came on were unwelcome and protests flew wild when the words stopped. But there were more nights to come. And a story to complete.
The roads were less traveled - outdoors were peaceful, private. The skies were clear and the stars could still be counted. Sitting in the verandah, the cool air lulling, her flowing words stilled young limbs and held them captive around her. Drawn into the intricacies being unraveled, they forgot all else. Caught up in the magic she wove.
The sudden glaring lights as the power came on were unwelcome and protests flew wild when the words stopped. But there were more nights to come. And a story to complete.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Down Memory Lane
Dawn, the birds shaking out of their stupor, ruffling their feathers before chirping away to let the new day in. The gate being rattled - the milk man was here. Impatient to show that his bowl was empty and to get on with milking. The brush of coconut leaf spines against the damp verandah - our maid getting along with her work, arguing with my mother about why she was late again.
The pressure cooker squealing to glory, grinning that we would be getting idlies for breakfast again! That's what we woke up to most days. Then would follow a medley of groans and dragging feet. A mild chaos ensued while seven kids got ready for school. Shuffling feet, running water, gurgling throats, suffering knocks on bathroom doors, pleading for just five more minutes of sleep. The fan whirring a steady rhythm. Timmy barking away to glory - it had to either be the gas cylinder guy rolling one in or the neighbouring kid. Wonder what the kid had done; Timmy was always especially expressive when he came around.
Scraping chairs as everyone settled down for breakfast. Hurrying patter of footsteps while everyone got their shoes/keds on. The lucky ones got keds - PT in the time-table for that day! The rickshaw wallah would call out, let known his presence and whisk away the little ones while the older ones trudged to the bus stop. The house would settle down. Suddenly deprived of activity. In waiting for the familiar sounds which would herald the return of the batallion.
Life is Heard.
The pressure cooker squealing to glory, grinning that we would be getting idlies for breakfast again! That's what we woke up to most days. Then would follow a medley of groans and dragging feet. A mild chaos ensued while seven kids got ready for school. Shuffling feet, running water, gurgling throats, suffering knocks on bathroom doors, pleading for just five more minutes of sleep. The fan whirring a steady rhythm. Timmy barking away to glory - it had to either be the gas cylinder guy rolling one in or the neighbouring kid. Wonder what the kid had done; Timmy was always especially expressive when he came around.
Scraping chairs as everyone settled down for breakfast. Hurrying patter of footsteps while everyone got their shoes/keds on. The lucky ones got keds - PT in the time-table for that day! The rickshaw wallah would call out, let known his presence and whisk away the little ones while the older ones trudged to the bus stop. The house would settle down. Suddenly deprived of activity. In waiting for the familiar sounds which would herald the return of the batallion.
Life is Heard.
Monday, May 18, 2009
A Wastrel I Shall Be
That I have decided is the direction for me this week!
Having somehow managed to catch up with work (I think), I've decided I shall squander away this break with nary a care. I'm one of those scant few in my company who are happy about the shut down. Yes, we have a shut down at work this week and I'm happy about it. Having taken a two month break end of last year, I had no hopes of getting time off anytime soon. So this is a fortunate landfall.
Florida here I come!
Having somehow managed to catch up with work (I think), I've decided I shall squander away this break with nary a care. I'm one of those scant few in my company who are happy about the shut down. Yes, we have a shut down at work this week and I'm happy about it. Having taken a two month break end of last year, I had no hopes of getting time off anytime soon. So this is a fortunate landfall.
Florida here I come!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Just One of Those Things
I am thinking about - things to do
I said - to myself "get a life"
I want to - get to Florida sooooon!
I wish - I were at home
I miss - my extended family
I hear - music
I wonder - "But nothing ever happens and I wonder"I regret - blank
I am - wandering
I dance - in the rain (or want to)
I sing - besur
I cry - silently
I am not always - doing what I should
I make with my hands - nothing useful
I write - nonsense
I confuse - left and right
I need - sunshine
I should try - swimming
I finish -first :P
I said - to myself "get a life"
I want to - get to Florida sooooon!
I wish - I were at home
I miss - my extended family
I hear - music
I wonder - "But nothing ever happens and I wonder"I regret - blank
I am - wandering
I dance - in the rain (or want to)
I sing - besur
I cry - silently
I am not always - doing what I should
I make with my hands - nothing useful
I write - nonsense
I confuse - left and right
I need - sunshine
I should try - swimming
I finish -first :P
Mindless
As I sit in front of my computer slogging away, or making believe that I am slogging away, it struck me that I would be happier if I was working at something that requires physical labour versus what I do currently. At work, I have to really use my brains about less than half the time. The rest of the time I somehow end up wandering around - on the net or in my head. And you know what they say about empty vessels...
As kids, us siblings were expected to tend to the garden. Plough out all the weeds, air the soil, and generally get the garden ready for the new batch of plants/seeds my mom was interested in at the time. A spring cleaning of the grounds of sorts. It was such fun! And our parents used to actually treat us after, which totally added to the whole experience. That is probably the only significant experience I have with the all brawn and no brainer activities.
I'm sure I will not like labouring away for a profession, knowing it can get tiring and that the returns are not all that enticing. But the few times I did have to toil, I found it surprisingly very satisfying. Then again there is physical labour and domestic labour (the working around the home kinds). I know for a fact I definitely don't enjoy the latter; especially when I take a look around my place and realize all the work that needs to go into it.
Are sports my form of physical labour? Probably. There is something very satisfying in just sweating it out that is surprisingly missing in other experiences. The good sleep that follows definitely adds to the list of pros!
As kids, us siblings were expected to tend to the garden. Plough out all the weeds, air the soil, and generally get the garden ready for the new batch of plants/seeds my mom was interested in at the time. A spring cleaning of the grounds of sorts. It was such fun! And our parents used to actually treat us after, which totally added to the whole experience. That is probably the only significant experience I have with the all brawn and no brainer activities.
I'm sure I will not like labouring away for a profession, knowing it can get tiring and that the returns are not all that enticing. But the few times I did have to toil, I found it surprisingly very satisfying. Then again there is physical labour and domestic labour (the working around the home kinds). I know for a fact I definitely don't enjoy the latter; especially when I take a look around my place and realize all the work that needs to go into it.
Are sports my form of physical labour? Probably. There is something very satisfying in just sweating it out that is surprisingly missing in other experiences. The good sleep that follows definitely adds to the list of pros!
- From the Diaries of a Rested Being.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Unexpected Pleasures
She was jogging down the street. A slow cadence. Listening to the song playing in her ears.
There she was just walkin down the street
Singing "Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do"
Her pace picked up. Enjoying the music. Taking in the sights. The fading day blanketing around. The moon and stars fighting the stronghold of the Sun and shining brighter. The bicyclists plodding home. The lady all dressed up, her partner holding a sunny bunch of daisies in his hand. The ending of the day. The beginning of the evening.
She never expected to like jogging when she first took it up. It wasn't a group activity. And connecting with people was what she liked best. But it was growing on her. She started missing it on those long weeks when inertia kept her from stretching her legs. The time spent jogging was all hers. To contemplate or to just enjoy the outdoors. To listen to her favourite songs or to sweat out the cares. It kept her feeling alive.
And taught her to enjoy solitude.
There she was just walkin down the street
Singing "Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do"
Her pace picked up. Enjoying the music. Taking in the sights. The fading day blanketing around. The moon and stars fighting the stronghold of the Sun and shining brighter. The bicyclists plodding home. The lady all dressed up, her partner holding a sunny bunch of daisies in his hand. The ending of the day. The beginning of the evening.
She never expected to like jogging when she first took it up. It wasn't a group activity. And connecting with people was what she liked best. But it was growing on her. She started missing it on those long weeks when inertia kept her from stretching her legs. The time spent jogging was all hers. To contemplate or to just enjoy the outdoors. To listen to her favourite songs or to sweat out the cares. It kept her feeling alive.
And taught her to enjoy solitude.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Just Another Day
She was gazing at her screen. Her thoughts drifting in the hiatus from chatting. Not really seeing what her eyes were looking at. Instead picturing with her minds eye a replay of the night her thoughts were sauntering through. Reliving the moment.
They were all happy to have their friend amongst them. Happy that the fates had spared him. He looked drawn. The events of the day taking a toll on him. No one wanted to think beyond the moment. Think of the others who were suffering right now. Of the senseless happenings. Of the gruesome sights.
They ordered a round of drinks. Toasting to his health and long life. It was her first drink. Ever. She didn't know him well. But was happy nevertheless that he was safe. The images from TV reports still resonating in her head. The drink was helping. Helping dull her mind and keep the thoughts at bay. A day of firsts. And lasts for many. She sent out a silent prayer for them.
A ping from her friend recalled her to the present. The mundane. The everyday. The dullness. To the lack of events. And she sent out a silent thanks for the routine-ness of the day.
They were all happy to have their friend amongst them. Happy that the fates had spared him. He looked drawn. The events of the day taking a toll on him. No one wanted to think beyond the moment. Think of the others who were suffering right now. Of the senseless happenings. Of the gruesome sights.
They ordered a round of drinks. Toasting to his health and long life. It was her first drink. Ever. She didn't know him well. But was happy nevertheless that he was safe. The images from TV reports still resonating in her head. The drink was helping. Helping dull her mind and keep the thoughts at bay. A day of firsts. And lasts for many. She sent out a silent prayer for them.
A ping from her friend recalled her to the present. The mundane. The everyday. The dullness. To the lack of events. And she sent out a silent thanks for the routine-ness of the day.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Journey
The self made farmer. Toiling away on his piece of earth, his fields everyday. Never knowing weekend from a weekday. Festivals probably being the only deviants forced on him by his wife. He granted his selfless companion that much indulgence. Never knew any vagaries of life. Born without privileges, living for a better future for his children. They never wanted for anything. Though his kids, especially his daughter could have done with more variety in life. In her daily garb which tended almost to be a uniform. In the plain food they ate everyday. They never complained. They appreciated what they had. There were days when in frustration the wife vented and silently cried herself alright. But they had a good life. A happy life. Fates had been kind to them. Their children grew to have more experiences, opportunities than they had ever dreamed of. They were alright.
The privileged wanderer. Born with all the comforts one could want. Or learn to want. Never spoiled but never checked either. The fancy schools and foreign experiences. The far off lands; the run of home. The finer things of life. Arts, theater, love. He indulged. Almost content. Till the emptiness hit him again. Till the tendrils of happiness slipped past him. The electronic waste lands at his disposal never satisfying. Searching. Maybe he was missing out on something? Maybe he hadn't found his true calling yet? Guided by his fancy. He was forever thirsty. For the liquid that would quench his soul. Root his soul. What had his grandfather found that was eluding him?
The privileged wanderer. Born with all the comforts one could want. Or learn to want. Never spoiled but never checked either. The fancy schools and foreign experiences. The far off lands; the run of home. The finer things of life. Arts, theater, love. He indulged. Almost content. Till the emptiness hit him again. Till the tendrils of happiness slipped past him. The electronic waste lands at his disposal never satisfying. Searching. Maybe he was missing out on something? Maybe he hadn't found his true calling yet? Guided by his fancy. He was forever thirsty. For the liquid that would quench his soul. Root his soul. What had his grandfather found that was eluding him?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Outside the Self
A little girl in her pretty pretty frock. Cheeks glowing, epitome of health. Sharing the bag of goodies she just got with her friends. Before indulging herself. Mmm, she loved sugar candy.
The kid toddled upto her. He had been busy in some corner of the room earlier. He looked at her candy coated fingers and cheeks and held out his hand. Never for a moment doubting. Her bag of candy was empty. She didn't hesitate before plucking out the candy from between her teeth and plopping it down on his chubby little outstretched palm.
To think, I'd assumed the story of the hare on the moon was made up.
The kid toddled upto her. He had been busy in some corner of the room earlier. He looked at her candy coated fingers and cheeks and held out his hand. Never for a moment doubting. Her bag of candy was empty. She didn't hesitate before plucking out the candy from between her teeth and plopping it down on his chubby little outstretched palm.
To think, I'd assumed the story of the hare on the moon was made up.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Bucket List
"I wish I had hugged her"
"I wish I had held onto her hand a little longer"
"I wish we had shared one more of those ice creams she loves"
"I wish I had talked with her some more"
"I wish I had visited her on the way back"
"I wish...."
****
Why do people have a list of things they would like to do before dying? I mean who would regret it if that list didn't get done?
Isn't it better to have a list of things to do for anyday; not for the days before death...
I have decided to re-evaluate and form a list of things I would do by people I care for, a list which would ensure I have no regrets at any point of time. And hope I get through that list.
"I wish I had held onto her hand a little longer"
"I wish we had shared one more of those ice creams she loves"
"I wish I had talked with her some more"
"I wish I had visited her on the way back"
"I wish...."
****
Why do people have a list of things they would like to do before dying? I mean who would regret it if that list didn't get done?
Isn't it better to have a list of things to do for anyday; not for the days before death...
I have decided to re-evaluate and form a list of things I would do by people I care for, a list which would ensure I have no regrets at any point of time. And hope I get through that list.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Numb
People were moving. Chaos everywhere. Sounds all around. Days filled with activities. It was the season for changes. Of new experiences. Of beginnings. Endings.
She was in the midst of it all. She was detached from it all. Nothing touched her heart. The smallest tug got her tearing.
The phone was ringing. Again. Why did it always have to be the phone? There was a time when she dreaded calls.
She should be devastated. But could hardly react. Cursed herself for her clinical thoughts. Why was she thinking and not feeling?? The cold fingers of her thoughts reached out for the answers... The answers she wasn't sure she would get.
Was this all that it came down to? All those years; all those moments, memories...
She was in the midst of it all. She was detached from it all. Nothing touched her heart. The smallest tug got her tearing.
The phone was ringing. Again. Why did it always have to be the phone? There was a time when she dreaded calls.
She should be devastated. But could hardly react. Cursed herself for her clinical thoughts. Why was she thinking and not feeling?? The cold fingers of her thoughts reached out for the answers... The answers she wasn't sure she would get.
Was this all that it came down to? All those years; all those moments, memories...
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