Before the sunrays of yesterday morning lose their impression on my memory and the trifling dents from the thorns and shrubs heal away, I should put this in text. I have been in my bunker on most of the days; I have even rid myself of the lethargy that seems trendy to narrate; even have a routine; even given up on late hours of VH1 and Emotional Attyachar; but the fact is that I still remain holed up much like any generic prisoner. It's an itch, irritation.The itch sees me doodling, mostly, and a couple of days back when I had nothing worthier to do I sat for drinks with a couple of friends. I drew a man on a mountain catching a sunrise against a crescent shaped hillcrest, and the animals. Yesterday, that silly doodle turned into a divination, when this guy decided to deny his bum the primal pleasure of the couch first thing in the morning, and head out into Aarey instead. Less dangling about in thoughts, and more of those potent experiental formative moments, which have equal probabilities of either leaving you in awe, or in a plaster, but never of leaving you feeling like an intricately carved artifact rotting away in a cellar. New roads, new horizons, new jungles.
Transitory high. As Ignatius would justify, “So we see that even when Fortuna spins us downward, the wheel sometimes halts for a moment and we find ourselves in a good, small cycle within a larger bad cycle”.
Widget by Css Reflex | TutZone
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment