Who writes this first thing on a sunday morning? ME!

One part of me just wants to wriggle out of this mess..its not that opportunities are not there..just that I am not able to allow myself to move on.. I fear that by hopping on to any of these opportunities the last frail thread binding us, however loosely, would also snap and the road leading back would be shut forever. And I don’t want that. Why don’t I want that? Sometimes I want to tell myself to chuck my belief in justice.. life etc. is NOT just..was never meant to be. I want myself to absorb this truth..inject it in every nerve of mine and just go away forever. But again, I am stopped.

Waiting had become a part of life these past many months. The year was a disaster, such as I would never want to relive again. But sometimes I wonder, could I have made things better? Could I have worked things out? Could I have done anything different so as to make it better? Did I leave any stone unturned? Did I place my bars to high? Did I let ego blind me? My answer is no. I always believed that ego, as long as within the realms or garb of self respect, is good, it is needed for anyone to support one's beliefs and one's assertiveness sometimes. But go a few notches higher than that and it sucks the happiness out of moments that would otherwise be brimmed with love. I didn't let my self have that kind of ego---to the utter annoyance of some of my well-wishers though---for I did not want to lose those wondrous moments for the vain glory of having satisfied some vengeful notion of mine. Naah.. that would have been too paltry a consideration. I would have been unable to do that.

I so want answers. I so want solutions. I seek solace. But something inside of me stops me..for I know if I turn back I would lose my self as well as any chance of things being better again. Another thing that keeps me halted is the apprehension of failure. One more time and I would be again left alone.. feeling like a fool standing in a far off desert praying for rain with not a speck of cloud in sight.

I know the above would make little sense to anyone but me. My write-therapy it is.