Now a days I find it difficult to decide anything at all. Well, almost anything at least. I am stuck, sort of, unable to muster courage to move.
I would like to move. But would I?
Even this thing that I am typing has no real ardour in it. Yet I am pushing myself to write. Why? I do not know.
I guess that things get done by pushing, pushing. Without the practice the exercise is new to me. I have depended too much on inspiration, waiting for the big wave to surf me on the breakers as it were. What needs doing is, perhaps, swim across the ocean rim leaving the frothy shallows behind.
This seeking after absolutes, probing deeper into the mystery of union is a tiring business. Somewhere half way my will has abandoned me.
We allow lofty thought to impress us. I suppose we all do. Certainly the loftiness of human thought inspires many of us to commit; some stick, others escape... I don't even know the truth behind these conjectures! They are there to keep me afloat, prod me on to stick on a while longer yet. And what the hell is this TRUTH anyways?
Simplicity must be the most natural thing but it is the one thing I find most difficult. Am I naturally complicated? But that's bad. To be complicated is bad.
Take this instance: I have this invitation from a school to be the Santa on the 18th. This morning when I read the mail, I typed a reply. And then I tinkered with my spontaneous response, trying to improve it, make it slightly impressive. But on reading what I wrote I found it to be simply not my answer. It did not represent me, so I deleted it and wrote another equally not-mine reply. I wanted to say 'Yes' and thank Priya who sent it. I have not replied to her but pushed the replying for later.
Drastic & calamitous occurrences push me to act - like just now the current is off - which prompts me to post this ....
I will be embarrassed later, but what the hell? Right?
No comments:
Post a Comment