It’s been a long time since I have written in complete sentences. In wholesome and plausible paragraphs about something relevant.
I don’t know why I do things I do. Why I pick ways, stick to them unnecessarily and then one day, drop them.
Life today is good. Not very indulging, not very aimless.
Yet I don’t know why I keep writing about it and nothing else.
Doesn’t anything else matter?
Some days back I was reading an article on Narmada by Arundhati Roy.
It was fact based. But was written with so much of passion.
Her passion gleamed through the words.
And I thought to myself…..
“ Poor little writer girl…. Trying to save the world in red and blue tights”
I wondered if saving a human settlement around a river would ever give me sleepless nights!
If 50 million displaced, homeless people ever mattered.
Will nuclear armament be as relevant as losing my virginity. Though the former could kill us all, and the latter a harmless progression in emotional and sexual life.

You know one of the most difficult things in the world is to come to terms with your own self. Both your greatness and your weakness. And sometimes when you cannot feel enough, just because it doesn’t hurt you.