Rambling On

Well, its mid-noon; lunch is over; I made some pathetic curry that I had to wash down with umpteen glasses of water. The end result? A few more visits to the washroom. How irritating! Anyways, I am not in much mood to work; dreadedly (is that a word?), the dull feeling of not doing what I am supposed to do is seeping in. Yet, the heart refuses to budge from its obstinate position. I have nothing to write on; however, I am getting this urge to write. So, I have no clue where and how this post will lead. Perhaps, like life, nowhere!

As a beginning to any non-conversation, the much-beaten topic of weather invariably springs up faster than the jack-in-a-box. I will begin with this brain-bashed topic. The weather is marvellous right now. The sun is pretty much wrapped, and I doubt it will be able to win the battle against the grey clouds today before its time for it to finally pack up for the day. A feeble breeze squeezes through the tight gauzed windows. The front door, slightly ajar, allows for another slim stream. As the branches get caressed, they sway in mild intoxication. A few drops are sprinkled by the laden caskets of the clouds; very soon, the cork shall open completely. It's the kind of day where one would like to wrap his hands around a warm glass of tea, and look at the falling droplets, and hear them get absorbed by the wetted earth.

Yesterday I saw a film. It was boring and atrocious, but it left a nagging thought relentlessly scratching the brain. Can I ever leave all this up and walk the path of my dreams? I had tried it once, but it was not exactly the way to my dreams, it was a run-off from something that I was not liking. Two negatives do not make a positive. So, even though I had run out, I had made the mistake of not looking as to where I was headed; instead, I just kept staring behind me to see the release from what was behind me. Because of that act, today I cannot do anything; my hands are tied. I am answerable to my family; I cannot explain another journey into the unknown. My practical mind, and my conventional upbringing will detest admitting this; I have typed , deleted /retyped and re-deleted /re-retyped (if there is any such thing). I have gone outside, watched the rain, made a couple of calls and come back. Yet, my fingers tremble to type it out. Is my calling the film industry or the publishing world ? Or, am I being too stupid and too naive in my dreams? Do I really have the talent to write, or am I being carried away by the polite praises loaded onto me on the other blog in the comments section? My experiences tell me that the publishing world looks for some very high-grade of talent;I have been inundated by numerous rejection slips; but, people tell me that if Chetan Bhagat could be a bestseller, why not you? Oh hell, after my self-pity, I seem to wallowing in my vanity. I shall stop right here, today.