I have become so dextrous in arranging what should bother me and when that pain itself has lost its meaning. I have lost, I feel, the impulse that makes us grieve or pine. I know so much of myself now that even as 'answers' lay bare in front of me I no longer even want to get up and have a look. I am sure more lies ahead, more of me, more of those 'fine lines' that I so often talk about. But for now even this seems enough.
Last night, on my way from Connaught Place, I realized how this dexterity of the mind, this 'awareness', this vigilance rather - kills the spirit of spontaneity. Of making mistakes, seeking apology and keep going. But who can I allow myself to be that with?
I don't know if I make any sense to anyone reading this. I had better go and work.