Saturday, June 9
Every so often, a new scintilla of hope flashes by, like a gull that reaches higher than the mast of a riverboat you’ve been tallying it up against, if you’ve been jaded enough, that is, to keep an eye on a seagull and a riverboat on a humdrum evening by the lake, where the river opens itself. Aim higher, everyone always said. And if it was upto Bach, the mast would be put to shame, no? But I digress. I am not a seagull. I am just a little person with big dreams. So, when this hope was adrift, I took a ride on its wings. And discovered I could paint (again) and turn bakerwoman to whet those frosted buttercreamy appetites. But now, the ride is over, and until the next one comes, I will have to write fancifully to make you wonder why I’m not hopeful about what I can do best, which is write, and why I’m pining for other things, elsewhere. Such is life. You think you have it all, and then you’re taken by a sensation that completely topples your thoughts - it makes you think you have to have more than you have, because you’re smart enough to have some more. So, you chase one dream after another…till another comes along and catches up with you. If there is an iota of time that slips into the chasm between dreaming and chasing, I will sit down in a bookshop with my coffee, and post another piece on something else, which I think will be better than this one, from my *ahem* new Macbook.
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