foot and doors

Just now I read the name Foot in the Door, not as a bridge between two possibilities, as intended, but a foot that's caught between two doors and man, it hurts. Long time I wrote. Was busy mending a broken heart, trying to revive my health and my mood. I have been writing but to myself again. Writing of things fleeting by, writing of mundane and the ordinary, writing of what happened on my visit home and then tossing it all into the dustbin. 

I promised in the last post that I will, and so here I come. Tad too late perhaps, but you would understand. I had been reading some blogs today, by guys a few years elder to me. I noticed how they write, the gaiety, the chirpy laughter, the many comments, the whole hearty experience of it. And I then looked at my blog - I noticed how dark it had become, as if a winter had come never to leave. Not that I do not enjoy it, a certain gravity has always attracted me. But the blog had become so grim and rusty at places that fungi might have started growing by the sides before long. So I changed the template today, and even though I do not like it at ALL and in all probability will be changing it again, the fresh look is a breather.

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I wish I had it in me the passion and the belief to sit cross-legged as I am, and cry out loud to the skies, the winds and the lands. And with such fervor proclaim the ownership of my self! Once again.

home and the world

These past few days had me take an urgent short trip to Delhi. It left me not wanting to return. The last couple of days I was holed up in my plush new apartment in Thane. Without a book, a working television or my laptop. I suffered as I ached to write. The writing had to happen on the screen, surprisingly, as I see it now, it never even occurred to me that I could write with a pen on a piece of paper. Simplicity again dodged me. So I stood in the balcony with stray drops of rain making me shiver now and then and as I often do, I wrote in my mind.

I ached for you, blog where for once I can close the doors to the world and let my self be. And even as I write this I know my writing has lost a certain essence. A part of me hungers for it, the rest is scared, lest it should be back.

I am at a precarious junction. The reality back home is exactingly different from my world around here. I feel the homesickness of the homeless. But where is my home to be found?

I do not wish to trouble others, but I think I end up doing that. I know I will spring back again in some days/months - as is the human wont. Till then I seek solace in you my pages. And this time I wouldn't wait to write on a screen. I would write. Just write.