the sporadic

When your mind is cluttered it gets tough to write. And when your mind is uncluttered it gets impossible to write. I think one needs the right amount of nonsense to fill our senses to make us come up with 'words'. The case with me seems the former. I have been meaning to write much and for quite a long time..... But, let alone my wailing be.

So, first the niceties. I am doing well. Happy in my hell, as I said to a friend. Sometimes so distant from home (and i'm not talking geography here) that I know I won't return even when reach back. Some flights are for ever I guess, and I have still been a late bloomer, you'd agree. And the thought of no 'return' - it even makes me happy. 

I am working on my essay these days. "In what sense or senses is poverty a violation of human rights" - goes the question. I have been doing some reading for it but I haven't really been feeling quite there yet. I will start writing today though and I would know where to go thence.

As for the clutter, I seek some method, my madness seeks a method, a route, a chart, a rudder. It would need an anchor too, but on that later. 

I have been dreaming a lot these past few weeks. And dreaming pretty. Every person, every act is symbolic, turning me into quite an impromptu Freud as I open my eyes to the day ahead.

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I got all wet last night while coming from a lecture given by Prof. Amartya Sen. It had begin to rain a little by the time I started from the lecture hall across the Thames. Walking along the Jubilee Bridge in slight rain, made me feel so free.. I was as usual, unprepared for the rain and so getting wet by now. As I climbed down the stair case towards Northumberland Avenue, I had to halt at Embankment Station for a while before I could make a dash for my building. But the rain only thickened. Tired with the the wait, I finally took off my overcoat and covered my head with it, wearing it over myself like a cape. Securing my bag and phone with my cold fingers, I went out into the rain again. I couldn't run for fear of slipping, my old worn-out boots are prone to skidding. But it felt so good. Especially because it was late at night and pelting and because I was on my own.