As I climbed the stairs to my refuge on the terrace, it did not immediately occur to me that this quick run to acquiesce one of Carey's whims would actually be the last time I'm climbing these steps. I heaved a sigh and looked at my old companion. This is it, dog. The next time I'm here, we'll be at a new place. I took in the smell of the light breeze as it brought the green fields to my nostrils and gazed at the sunset scene I'd started depending on for creative fuel. Well, might as well seal it with one last game of fetch with the dog, I mused and sure enough, Carey ran to get in position. So I flung the ball and she ran. And fell. Now, our old girl has been limping off late, the hip is troubling her and I could see the fall had got her right at the weak spot. I rushed to her as she tried to get up. She couldn't put her foot down and was looking at me helplessly. Oh, but she had got the ball. The thing with my lady is, she's a tenacious fighter. Just when you think she's going down, she'd be back up with a punch. And sure enough, as the pain subsided, she put her foot down, walked a bit and got into position again.
So, you see, the house is indeed getting too old for us now. To a new place and more adventures.
Sent from my Windows Phone
It's been a long time since I had a blank page staring at me, waiting for an imprint. I do not know what caused this delay- I always had an idea or two to write about and also the time for it but the motivation was lacking. I was pre-occupied, among other things, by an idea that at first fuelled the creative spirit in me to bring about a huge change in my approach towards writing, only to leave me disillusioned in the end.
I have often been prodded by friends and family about what I wished to make with my flair for writing. Was I practising for a book, perhaps? Or did I desire to be featured in magazines and newsletters? Or, maybe, to just make that extra pocket money, sitting comfortably in front of a screen? My answer has always been woven around different connotations of 'I like writing'. Then I took a look around and wondered about the many possibilities pointed out to me. It won't be too bad getting my work published somewhere, wouldn't it? Neither would the extra pennies hurt, I reasoned. Have a skill, I'd be better off using it to my advantage.
This new found purpose lead to me an online content writing internship and a shot at getting a piece of work published. Which eventually lead to me distancing myself from my blog and all forms of writing I did exclusively for myself. I started to loathe writing: instead of being an outlet for to my emotions and views, it became another source of stress on my work-laden shoulders. As the frustration grew, I realized that I had reached the fearful place we've all been warned about when pursuing a passion: turn it into a form of work and you may find you cannot tolerate it any more. I'm not saying that this is a necessary outcome for any one walking down these roads, but, for me, the stress was quite binding. Also, I've started to feel that though there may be a lot of story-telling and prose-wielding inside me, the books will just have to wait till I am ready to have them, till I am ready to express through them.
Pluck words to capture the essence
And in your head
Spin them around in rhythm
With a dash of secrecy
And some selected memory
Mix them with an emotion
And churn them in the cauldron
Of soulful contemplation
A phrase or two include
For the surrounding view
As garnishing to the stew
So shelve it out
For the world to see
Here I am: This is me
In the garb of carefully construed poetry
<< For a better view of this note, tap the attached file. >>
Sent from my Windows Phone