Loose Ends

Time seems to be flashing by at an ever increasing pace. There are so many threads that started along the way, some of them becoming thick ropes, strong bonds that you can count on. And there are others that end as wisps almost as soon as they started, lost forever.

And then there are those that haven't quite disappeared, those that you imagine would be there when you reach for them. Do I dare reach out and test them?

Or do I prefer loose ends?

Loosing My Mind

Another year's flashed on by and still the elevators tell me that I might loose my hand. I guess long ago I was all right, but now it's ok to be alright. I'm so loost that I'm not sure whether I'm seperating or separating. Another ten-fifteen years, and I'll definately be in an asylum.

Perhaps English is moving on and I'm getting left behind. Or is it that the world's moving on and I've gotten off?

At The Edge

Onake Abbe, Agumbe.

I sat on a rock with my feet dangling dizzyingly high above the dive pool. Beside me, the water rippled around my fingers and dove unhesitating over the edge. The wind gently blew the cool spray back into my face as I looked over the rain-forest far below. Behind me, the path wound through the dense, dark forest of pit vipers and leeches that I hope will deter many a monsoon trekker.

I sat on the rock and dreamed. I dreamed I was an eagle, soaring unbounded over giant trees and crystal streams. And I despaired in my heart for I knew that my being there was a sign that man was at the doorstep.

I'd rather be a forest than a street. Yes, I would. If I could, I surely would.

- Simon & Garfunkel (El Condor Pasa)

Happiness Rains

Paper boats racing down the storm drain with four kids cheering them on sheltered from the lightning and the pouring rain by a tin roof.

Returning home soaking wet after winning a football match we should have lost since we were playing with most of the regulars banned for poor academic performance.

Continuing the Founder's display as the lights blew, one by one, in the summer storm.

Riding an auto through the gates of a green Pune University through the drizzle of the monsoon.

Stuck in the middle of nowhere in a downpour with darkness upon us, singing.

Sprinting up to Cheena Peak in a drizzle stopping only to pull leeches off our ankles.

Spending an hour in a village home not understanding a word of the conversation, invited in from the pouring rain.

Wandering through the Himachal hills, splashing each other by jumping in the puddles, not wanting to get home.

Discarding umbrellas and walking barefoot through paddy fields looking for frogs and mushrooms.

Scrambling for higher ground in the middle of the night as the swollen Alaknanda washed the sand away from under our tents.

Is it any wonder that I love the rain so?

Maybe

The problem isn't so much in writing as it is in writing beautifully. I struggle to put words together to express my thoughts because the words just don't seem to accurately translate what's floating around in my head. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if there was just one language up there. Truth be told, there is only one language that rolls comfortably off my tongue. But, maybe the culture from which I was born has the expressions that describes me better. Unfortunately, that is not the language I read or write.

Anyway, the reason I blog today is to let out this feeling of being lost. The age old question of "What do I want to do with my life?" has raised it's ugly head again. The problem would not have been so acute if I knew the answer to the short term version of that question: "What am I doing these days?" Or, maybe, the problem has arisen because I know the answer. "Nothing" is the answer I usually hand out to people that ask me. The expression on their faces usually tells me that they think I'm doing plenty but I'm just too much of a snob to deign to tell them about it. If only that were true!

Midlife crisis? Quarterlife crisis? Are these real? Maybe I'm thinking myself into one.

Well, you're in trouble when almost every sentence begins with maybe!

Write

The urge to write is there, but the words that come are dry. Years of disuse have made them reluctant to do my bidding. Yet the parched words seem ready for that little spark to set them afire. That little bit of inspiration that will change this trickle into an uncontrollable flood surging toward the infinity of the ocean.

Words have been rushing through my head, not letting me rest ever since you told me that I should write. "Write anything", you said. But I cannot harness this chaotic stream into coherence, and all that appears from the pen in my hand is a series of disconnected thoughts. It is exhilarating to have this pent-up force within me, but infinitely frustrating that I cannot.... I do not know what it is that I wish to do with these words.

And the chaos grows.

How does it feel to write something of significance? The picture in my head is that of a man tearing through the heavens on the back of a dragon. He holds on for all he's worth, but he hasn't the faintest idea of where he's going or how he got on the dragon in the first place. All he knows is that he will not survive if he does let go.

I imagine that it is exhausting to write that "significant" piece of work for I believe that the work will become everything that you are. Something from you must go irretrievably into those words so that even when you recover from the effort, you will never be the same.