I keep telling myself that today I will put fingers to the keyboard after work and write something, but somehow after a long hard day at work I simply can't muster up enough enthusiasm to switch the computer on and pen something down. And on the weekends, oh well, they go by so fast that one wonders if they were there in the first place. And today, well, I am here, fingers on the keyboard trying to write, but somehow, somewhere I don't know what I should really write about: it's as if there is some thing holding me back, telling me to wait till things get some clarity before putting thoughts to paper.
Do I have subjects or thoughts i want to pen down? You bet, I do. But they are half-formed, there, yet not there, I can feel tendrils in the back of my mind reaching out to emerge, yet when I go after them, there is nothing but a fine mist, as it were. And I wonder, if I misread some cues, am i meant for blogging, do i really have what it takes to blog. And sometimes, I find myself strangely on the Outside, looking in at the window as if I was a stranger, into a house where someone sits at the computer hitting away at the keys. And I wonder if that can be right? Can somebody at once be so involved in doing something and at the same time stand apart as if they were an impartial observer. And yet, if you were to reach out to me, call my name, I would perhaps take some time to respond, if that is so, why do I feel like I am looking into a stranger's house, a stranger's mind?
And that makes me think: Do I know myself at all? Or do I just think I know myself. And how does one go about knowing oneself. Am I what I am because of what I do, or how I behave, how I react, interact, who I know and who knows me? Who am I, why am I here. Why do I do what I do?
I am sitting here on the comfy sofa in my living room, music playing and that too music that I am particularly fond of and can quite lose myself into and yet there is a restlessness, an awareness that something somewhere has to fall into place. And yet I know not what. It is as if someone hath taken a duster, quite an effective one at that, and wiped my mind-slate clean. But that can't be so: " I think, therefore I am" or did i get that wrong too?
Anyway, the more I think about it, the more some lines echo in my mind: I "hitched a ride with the wind, and since he was my friend, I let him decide where we'd go..." Is it time to hitch another ride with my friend, the wind? Do I really want the wind to decide where we will go this time, or is time to be a wild flower again because "...when a flower grows wild, it can always survive, Wildflowers don't care where they grow..."
Do I have subjects or thoughts i want to pen down? You bet, I do. But they are half-formed, there, yet not there, I can feel tendrils in the back of my mind reaching out to emerge, yet when I go after them, there is nothing but a fine mist, as it were. And I wonder, if I misread some cues, am i meant for blogging, do i really have what it takes to blog. And sometimes, I find myself strangely on the Outside, looking in at the window as if I was a stranger, into a house where someone sits at the computer hitting away at the keys. And I wonder if that can be right? Can somebody at once be so involved in doing something and at the same time stand apart as if they were an impartial observer. And yet, if you were to reach out to me, call my name, I would perhaps take some time to respond, if that is so, why do I feel like I am looking into a stranger's house, a stranger's mind?
And that makes me think: Do I know myself at all? Or do I just think I know myself. And how does one go about knowing oneself. Am I what I am because of what I do, or how I behave, how I react, interact, who I know and who knows me? Who am I, why am I here. Why do I do what I do?
I am sitting here on the comfy sofa in my living room, music playing and that too music that I am particularly fond of and can quite lose myself into and yet there is a restlessness, an awareness that something somewhere has to fall into place. And yet I know not what. It is as if someone hath taken a duster, quite an effective one at that, and wiped my mind-slate clean. But that can't be so: " I think, therefore I am" or did i get that wrong too?
Anyway, the more I think about it, the more some lines echo in my mind: I "hitched a ride with the wind, and since he was my friend, I let him decide where we'd go..." Is it time to hitch another ride with my friend, the wind? Do I really want the wind to decide where we will go this time, or is time to be a wild flower again because "...when a flower grows wild, it can always survive, Wildflowers don't care where they grow..."
