Rebecca in Red

She storms out of the building into the chilly evening, where she left her work presentation incomplete. She couldn't take it any more. She walks with her leaden heart and heavy feet across the posh plaza onto the streets.Her beautiful red dress which she had ironed out for this presentation caught the glimpses of a few ladies down the street, but she just continued to walk.

Her pace was in sync with her heart rate, which was pretty fast. She didn't know where she was going.She was dazed, just staring blankly ahead and going forward as if her feet had its own mind to think of where it were going.

 She reaches the main streets.From somewhere around a corner she could hear her favourite music blaring out of the speakers. Usually she would tap her feet and begin trotting about. Not today. She felt the tones hit her hard like a brick.She wondered why and moved forward.A few feet ahead she saw a bunch of kids playing, making merry  and enjoying their childhood. On a normal day this would bring about a smile on her face and those dimples on her cheeks would melt anyone's heart. But today wasn't her normal day. She stared blankly at the laughter of those kids and couldn't fathom any reasoning whatsoever. She moved forward.

Its twilight now.Further down the street she saw an old man trying to cross the road. No car nor any motorbike halted to let him get to the other side. She would have felt pity and helped him cross the road, but not today. Her leaden heart didn't allow her to break her step and she continued forward. Further more, a street vendor called out to her as she was his daily customer. But today she didn't heed to his beckoning not having the appetite and walked further.

Her red heels were killing her feet and she was surprised that she had walked this far in them. She took them off and came to a halt on the bridge in the city. Her back to the railings and to the dangerous drop down below, unaware of the serenity behind her that had the capacity to overcome her gloom.This slowly creeping sadness over takes her beautiful mind.She knows it.She knows she can fight it. But she has no energy left, no fathomable reason to do so. So she lets it take over. She saw all the auto mobiles gushing past her on the road. She saw all the people walking past her on the footpath. She saw them. But they didn't see this lady dressed in red. They didn't see her. She got angry. How can they just walk past me without knowing what inner turmoil I am going through, she wondered.

She turns her head to the right from where she just came and could see her office building towering over the others, mocking at her misery. She grips the heels in her hands even more tightly.She then turns her head to the left and sees a couple embraced in each others arms,passionately kissing away into the sunset. She is all the more angered and tosses her heels into the river below.

There is a cool breeze blowing through her beautiful black hair.She closes her eyes to let the breeze ease her pain. But she feels sore. She feels numb. She feels cold, no not from the breeze outside but the indifference that was generated inside her. This left her even more confused. She wanted to cry because they said crying would let it all out, but of late not a single tear came to her eye. She doubted her emotions. She looked at the building.Anger. Anger of not being satisfied with the job she was doing even though she excelled at it. She looked at the couple deep in love.Sadness, for she did not get a kiss yet that she deserved. Sadness for she too secretly yearned for a platonic warmth of sorts from her Prince Charming. Sigh.

Then she looks out at the vast expanse from that bridge. The sun has set and the moon has slowly crept up. The wind is now whistling and her hair is swaying in the wind even more.A chill runs down her spine.She embraces herself for the cold.She hoped that some one would come up to her and ask her about her turmoil. She just felt mooted in one place with all of life flowing past her in fast forward. She yelled out loudly, hoping for an answer to echo back to her. Sadly there was just the dull roar of the motor boat below. She wanted everybody to stop for once. She wished that everything would just halt for a minute, even for a minute, complete stillness, everybody doing nothing. She felt empty. She felt like somebody had taken an integral part of hers and tossed it into the river below. The dark waters intimidated her. She looked like a ghostly figure dressed in red under the moon light. 

The stars begin to peek out.She looks up and remembers what she was told when she was younger, about our loved ones residing in the stars after death. She hopes she could go home and cuddle up in her mother's arms just like before and forget all the worries of the world. It pains her to know this will never be possible. And there, a shiny tear rolls down her cheek. It felt cold like steel against her skin. She was taken aback. Then a cascade of hot tears begin to flow and she weeps like a baby.

Its almost past dinner time now and she is still standing there on that bridge under the moonlight staring at the expanse.The wind is still blowing through her hair. A shadow creeps up slowly towards her. She is aware of it but doesn't turn.The person is a silhouette now. Its a man. He slowly walks up to her and places his jacket onto her shoulders and walks past her. She is surprised and turns to look at the man. But he has already walked way too ahead. She just sees his silhouette disappear into the darkness.A faint smile comes across her face. Rebecca, clutches the jacket and turns toward the road to her house.

The stars above smile.

Madam Rides The Bus

I have always been fascinated by this commuting system in our country.The Bus.For some reason, I feel the bus is so much more than just a chassis with a roaring engine,much more than just an auto mobile.For me it is more of a means of non verbal communication.Feel free to argue with me, but I have been planning on writing this blog post for quite some time now.So here goes...

In the olden times, people were fascinated by The Bus.People in the rustic,rural areas found it as their only source to travel to the city, a place which offered new hopes for dreamers like me.So yes, it seemed something brilliant to them, something as a tool that provided opportunity. And hence they would wait with so much anticipation and enthusiasm for The Bus.And for spontaneous people like me, it was the means of going on an adventure.

I recall this short story we had in class 8th, where a girl of 8 years,Valli, is so taken at awe by this bus that travels through her village everyday at regular intervals of 2 hours.I can put myself in her shoes and say that it indeed fascinated me when I was younger.

And that feeling when you are sitting and quietly observing out the window and deeply contemplating life...exquisite...

Travelling almost everyday in the local bus during my schooling years, has been a joyful ride.For me it was not just about going from point A to point B.Everyday was a new day in the bus. Everyday I would see new faces.Every face had a story to tell.And me being the person who stands on the sidelines and observes, enjoyed this experience very much.If you watch your fellow passengers closely, you see that they are most of the times, if not always, themselves.You come to know so much about these passengers when you travel with them.
For example a pompous lady,who is dressed really to her extents, might be attending a wedding or some other religious function.Oh and the way she would talk to her friend/neighbour...as though she has all the authority to boss over other's life!!!One could say that she has her way with her husband!
Or look at the old man sitting there on the seat saying senior citizen.When I look into his eyes, for some reason I see sadness.I see him not being able to get the love of his child that he deserves.I see him not regretting all the sacrifices he and his wife made for their child, hence forgiving the child's mistake and moving on.
Then I see a simple man dressed in simple clothes carrying the weekly grocery.I see his enthusiasm, because he is pretty excited and happy to give his kids some new fruits that they enjoy.This makes me so happy,because despite not being rich, the man is at ease an satisfied with his life, which I wish we all were.
Sometimes I see the girls with the kohl draped eyes,typing away on their pesky little cellphones with their posh manicured hands, or the boys dressed in a way as if they had fallen into a big cauldron of paint, trying to seek the girls' attention.Trust me, these scenes are hilarious!!

So travelling from my place to the heart of the city was really an adventure.This may seem a bit of an exaggeration to you but honestly one must experience The Bus.The passengers and the ticket collector, or as we say, the conductor, have a different kind of language which is unique in its own way.Even if you are a rare bus passenger, the conductor somehow knows where you want to go.I call it intuition.And it is something I find subtly beautiful.

I have found myself having a nice conversation with some people who are new in the area.It is really nice how two people can share their thoughts over a small distance journey.And then I realised that in spite of saying the world is a small place,I may not meet these people ever again.I treasure the few minutes I shared with them.Because I realised that it takes less than few minutes for someone to impact your life, and the fact that you may not meet them ever again, makes you realise how small and insignificant we are in this big cruel world.

Alas,of late, The bus that I travel through now, to come to college, is full of people who enjoy the morning slumber.The bus feels so lifeless everyday.Its like people are just exhausted of their lives and are just mooted there, going on with life for the sake of it,having lost all their avidness in the daily travails of life.Makes me wonder, would I become like them eventually?Shudder...

Added to that is the worst tragedy this country faced on 16th December 2012.This same bus that fascinated me, took as well as gave something important to us,the women of India.That night was every girl's nightmare.Even while writing this I have goosebumps all over my body.That night, that bus, those men, that place, took away our security.It took away our safety.It took away our trust.It took away our freedom of being a woman in this free country.But it also gave us an important aspect.It invoked in each and every woman in this country a NIRBHAYA...

Just like how Valli's enthusiasm was doused when she saw the once gleeful cow lying dead because of a road kill, The Bus has become an intimidating factor for me and I no longer look at it the same way...

An inspiration to us all

As the people of South Africa and the whole wide world mourns the demise of the great hero of 20th century I'd like to share these words written by President Barack Obama which instills in me a new inspiration to fight against injustice.

To Graça Machel and the Mandela family; to President Zuma and members of the government; to heads of state and government, past and present; distinguished guests - it is a singular honor to be with you today, to celebrate a life unlike any other. To the people of South Africa - people of every race and walk of life - the world thanks you for sharing Nelson Mandela with us. His struggle was your struggle. His triumph was your triumph. Your dignity and hope found expression in his life, and your freedom, your democracy is his cherished legacy.

It is hard to eulogise any man - to capture in words not just the facts and the dates that make a life, but the essential truth of a person - their private joys and sorrows; the quiet moments and unique qualities that illuminate someone’s soul. How much harder to do so for a giant of history, who moved a nation toward justice, and in the process moved billions around the world.

Born during World War I, far from the corridors of power, a boy raised herding cattle and tutored by elders of his Thembu tribe - Madiba would emerge as the last great liberator of the 20th century. Like Gandhi, he would lead a resistance movement - a movement that at its start held little prospect of success. Like King, he would give potent voice to the claims of the oppressed, and the moral necessity of racial justice. He would endure a brutal imprisonment that began in the time of Kennedy and Khrushchev, and reached the final days of the Cold War.  Emerging from prison, without force of arms, he would - like Lincoln - hold his country together when it threatened to break apart.  Like America’s founding fathers, he would erect a constitutional order to preserve freedom for future generations - a commitment to democracy and rule of law ratified not only by his election, but by his willingness to step down from power.

Given the sweep of his life, and the adoration that he so rightly earned, it is tempting then to remember Nelson Mandela as an icon, smiling and serene, detached from the tawdry affairs of lesser men.  But Madiba himself strongly resisted such a lifeless portrait. Instead, he insisted on sharing with us his doubts and fears; his miscalculations along with his victories. “I’m not a saint,” he said, “unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying.”

It was precisely because he could admit to imperfection - because he could be so full of good humor, even mischief, despite the heavy burdens he carried - that we loved him so. He was not a bust made of marble; he was a man of flesh and blood - a son and husband, a father and a friend. That is why we learned so much from him; that is why we can learn from him still.  For nothing he achieved was inevitable. In the arc of his life, we see a man who earned his place in history through struggle and shrewdness; persistence and faith. He tells us what’s possible not just in the pages of dusty history books, but in our own lives as well.

Mandela showed us the power of action; of taking risks on behalf of our ideals. Perhaps Madiba was right that he inherited, “a proud rebelliousness, a stubborn sense of fairness” from his father. Certainly he shared with millions of black and colored South Africans the anger born of, “a thousand slights, a thousand indignities, a thousand unremembered moments…a desire to fight the system that imprisoned my people.”

But like other early giants of the ANC - the Sisulus and Tambos - Madiba disciplined his anger; and channeled his desire to fight into organization, and platforms, and strategies for action, so men and women could stand-up for their god-given dignity. Moreover, he accepted the consequences of his actions, knowing that standing up to powerful interests and injustice carries a price. “I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination,” he said at his 1964 trial. “I’ve cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.”

Mandela taught us the power of action, but also ideas; the importance of reason and arguments; the need to study not only those you agree with, but those who you don’t. He understood that ideas cannot be contained by prison walls, or extinguished by a sniper’s bullet. He turned his trial into an indictment of apartheid because of his eloquence and passion, but also his training as an advocate. He used decades in prison to sharpen his arguments, but also to spread his thirst for knowledge to others in the movement. And he learned the language and customs of his oppressor so that one day he might better convey to them how their own freedom depended upon his.

Mandela demonstrated that action and ideas are not enough; no matter how right, they must be chiseled into laws and institutions. He was practical, testing his beliefs against the hard surface of circumstance and history. On core principles he was unyielding, which is why he could rebuff offers of conditional release, reminding the Apartheid regime that, “prisoners cannot enter into contracts.” But as he showed in painstaking negotiations to transfer power and draft new laws, he was not afraid to compromise for the sake of a larger goal. And because he was not only a leader of a movement, but a skillful politician, the Constitution that emerged was worthy of this multiracial democracy; true to his vision of laws that protect minority as well as majority rights, and the precious freedoms of every South African.

Finally, Mandela understood the ties that bind the human spirit. There is a word in South Africa- Ubuntu - that describes his greatest gift: his recognition that we are all bound together in ways that can be invisible to the eye; that there is a oneness to humanity; that we achieve ourselves by sharing ourselves with others, and caring for those around us. We can never know how much of this was innate in him, or how much of was shaped and burnished in a dark, solitary cell. But we remember the gestures, large and small - introducing his jailors as honored guests at his inauguration; taking the pitch in a Springbok uniform; turning his family’s heartbreak into a call to confront HIV/AIDS - that revealed the depth of his empathy and understanding. He not only embodied Ubuntu; he taught millions to find that truth within themselves. It took a man like Madiba to free not just the prisoner, but the jailor as well; to show that you must trust others so that they may trust you; to teach that reconciliation is not a matter of ignoring a cruel past, but a means of confronting it with inclusion, generosity and truth. He changed laws, but also hearts.

For the people of South Africa, for those he inspired around the globe - Madiba’s passing is rightly a time of mourning, and a time to celebrate his heroic life. But I believe it should also prompt in each of us a time for self-reflection. With honesty, regardless of our station or circumstance, we must ask:  how well have I applied his lessons in my own life?

It is a question I ask myself - as a man and as a President. We know that like South Africa, the United States had to overcome centuries of racial subjugation. As was true here, it took the sacrifice of countless people - known and unknown - to see the dawn of a new day. Michelle and I are the beneficiaries of that struggle. But in America and South Africa, and countries around the globe, we cannot allow our progress to cloud the fact that our work is not done. The struggles that follow the victory of formal equality and universal franchise may not be as filled with drama and moral clarity as those that came before, but they are no less important. For around the world today, we still see children suffering from hunger, and disease; run-down schools, and few prospects for the future. Around the world today, men and women are still imprisoned for their political beliefs; and are still persecuted for what they look like, or how they worship, or who they love.

We, too, must act on behalf of justice. We, too, must act on behalf of peace. There are too many of us who happily embrace Madiba’s legacy of racial reconciliation, but passionately resist even modest reforms that would challenge chronic poverty and growing inequality. There are too many leaders who claim solidarity with Madiba’s struggle for freedom, but do not tolerate dissent from their own people. And there are too many of us who stand on the sidelines, comfortable in complacency or cynicism when our voices must be heard.

The questions we face today - how to promote equality and justice; to uphold freedom and human rights; to end conflict and sectarian war - do not have easy answers. But there were no easy answers in front of that child in Qunu. Nelson Mandela reminds us that it always seems impossible until it is done. South Africa shows us that is true. South Africa shows us we can change. We can choose to live in a world defined not by our differences, but by our common hopes. We can choose a world defined not by conflict, but by peace and justice and opportunity.

We will never see the likes of Nelson Mandela again. But let me say to the young people of Africa, and young people around the world - you can make his life’s work your own. Over thirty years ago, while still a student, I learned of Mandela and the struggles in this land. It stirred something in me. It woke me up to my responsibilities - to others, and to myself - and set me on an improbable journey that finds me here today. And while I will always fall short of Madiba’s example, he makes me want to be better. He speaks to what is best inside us. After this great liberator is laid to rest; when we have returned to our cities and villages, and rejoined our daily routines, let us search then for his strength - for his largeness of spirit - somewhere inside ourselves. And when the night grows dark, when injustice weighs heavy on our hearts, or our best laid plans seem beyond our reach - think of Madiba, and the words that brought him comfort within the four walls of a cell:

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

What a great soul it was. We will miss him deeply. May God bless the memory of Nelson Mandela. May God bless the people of South Africa.

मनुष्यता

Here's a hindi poem by Maithilisharan Gupt

मनुष्यता

विचार लो कि मर्त्य हो न मृत्यु से डरो कभी,
मरो परन्तु यों मरो कि याद जो करे सभी।
हुई न यों सु-मृत्यु तो वृथा मरे, वृथा जिए,
मरा नहीं वहीं कि जो जिया न आपके लिए।

यही पशु-प्रवृत्ति है कि आप आप ही चरे,
वही मनुष्य है कि जो मनुष्य के लिए मरे।

उसी उदार की कथा सरस्वती बखानती,
उसी उदार से धरा कृतार्थ भाव मानती।
उसी उदार की सदा सजीव कीर्ति कूजती,
तथा उसी उदार को समस्त सृष्टि पूजती।

अखंड आत्म भाव जो असीम विश्व में भरे,
वही मनुष्य है कि जो मनुष्य के लिए मरे।

सहानुभूति चाहिए, महाविभूति है वही,
वशीकृता सदैव है बनी हुई स्वयं मही।
विरुद्धवाद बुद्ध का दया-प्रवाह में बहा,
विनीत लोक वर्ग क्या न सामने झुका रहे?

अहा! वही उदार है परोपकार जो करे,
वहीं मनुष्य है कि जो मनुष्य के लिए मरे।

अनंत अंतरिक्ष में अनंत देव हैं खड़े,
समक्ष ही स्वबाहु जो बढ़ा रहे बड़े-बड़े।
परस्परावलम्ब से उठो तथा बढ़ो सभी,
अभी अमर्त्य-अंक में अपंक हो चढ़ो सभी।

रहो न यों कि एक से न काम और का सरे,
वही मनुष्य है कि जो मनुष्य के लिए मरे।

"मनुष्य मात्र बन्धु है" यही बड़ा विवेक है,
पुराण पुरुष स्वयंभू पिता प्रसिद्ध एक है।
फलानुसार कर्म के अवश्य बाह्य भेद है,
परंतु अंतरैक्य में प्रमाणभूत वेद हैं।

अनर्थ है कि बंधु हो न बंधु की व्यथा हरे,
वही मनुष्य है कि जो मनुष्य के लिए मरे।

चलो अभीष्ट मार्ग में सहर्ष खेलते हुए,
विपत्ति विप्र जो पड़ें उन्हें ढकेलते हुए।
घटे न हेलमेल हाँ, बढ़े न भिन्नता कभी,
अतर्क एक पंथ के सतर्क पंथ हों सभी।

तभी समर्थ भाव है कि तारता हुआ तरे,
वही मनुष्य है कि जो मनुष्य के लिए मरे।

Of poems and lingering thoughts

Lately I've been empathizing about postmen, coolies, my local "pao wala", the general store's shopkeeper and  likes.I wonder how they go about their day...thinking only about feeding their wives and kids or wondering if they could get more out of life.
So I've decided to let my readers read poems, which will evoke such thoughts in their minds too.
So here's the first one.
Its by the great Robert Frost titled the Roadside Stand.

The little old house was out with a little new shed 

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, 

A roadside stand that too pathetically plead, 

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, 

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports 

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint. 

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead, 

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts 

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint 

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong 

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts, 

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts, 

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene. 

You have the money, but if you want to be mean, 

Why keep your money (this crossly), and go along. 

The hurt to the scenery wouldn't be my complaint 

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid: 

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand 

And ask for some city money to feel in hand 

To try if it will not make our being expand, 

And give us the life of the moving pictures' promise 

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us. 

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin 

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in 

To live in villages next to the theatre and store 

At the shiny desert with spots of gloom 

That might be people and are but cedar, 

Have no purpose, have no leader, 

Have never made the first move to assemble, 

And so are nothing to make her tremble. 

She can think of places that are not thus 

Without indulging a 'Not for us!”

Life is not so sinister-grave. 

Matter of fact has made them brave. 

He is husband, she is wife. 

She fears not him, they fear not life. 

They know where another light has been 

And more than one to theirs akin, 

But earlier out for bed tonight, 

So lost on me in my surface flight. 

This I saw when waking late, 

Going by at a railroad rate, 

Looking through wreaths of engine smoke 

Far into the lives of other folk. 

The fallen rose

All alone it lies there, on that cobblestone road. All alone, neglected and not cared. That Rose which once flaunted its beauty is now turning a bitter shade of brown on that carefree road.

Perhaps it signifies the rejection of a loved one, or maybe has fallen off the head of a pompous unmindful lady or has been cast out from its rosy friends because it could no longer blend in with them. But nevertheless, that Rose lies there, meeting its death. Its beauty, all gone. Its alluring power fades to nothing.

I wonder if this happens to all of us. When we glow, show our avidness, or talents, our capabilities to the world, we feel as though we are on cloud nine, with people all around praising us, literally worshipping at our feet. The aura of awesomeness that surrounds us blinds us from the thorns of reality.  And just when that glow gradually dampens, we crash hard on the floor. The same people turn against us. We are now trodden on, neglected, not cared for and left for the dead.

The Rose which once swayed its plump redness in the winds with all bees and birds bumbling and chirping aloud around it has now been left to enjoy its solitary decay.

How can we be so cruel to such a beautiful thing? Wasn’t it the same rose that adorned our heads and met the glee of everyone? Wasn’t it the same rose that perhaps swooned at our grandmothers who sat in her veranda watching it? Wasn’t it the same rose that made our hearts flutter when it was presented to us as a token of friendship or love? Yes it was the same rose. Then why did we fail to see its significance when it just turned a tinge of brown. Why did we forget its purpose to us? Is it justifiable to be indifferent to things that once flattered our hearts…

Why is it that we always see what is on the outside? Why is it that we judge a person on their looks and their flamboyance? Isn’t there something called the inner beauty? Why do humans fail to see the inner beauty that is unique to each and every one of us? Why do people put up a fake personality and be unmindful to their inner beauty and sham about who they think they should be?

All these questions seem to mingle in the air around me when I think of that dead, decaying Rose fallen on that carefree road.

Looking out the window

They say birds of a feather flock together.
One tries to fly away and the other watches him closely from a wire, he says he wants to as well but he is a liar.He's never going to let go of  the wire.

I am staring out the window, listening to the pitter patter of the raindrops and the cry of the cicada, besieged by the sudden serenity that over comes nature in that lush moment.And I cant stop singing the above lines from Regina Spektor's song called 'Two birds'.This got me wondering about the similarities between the two birds and us humans.

One bird is not ready to leave the other.He says he wants to,he is not only fooling the other bird but also himself. Don't we humans to do the same?We cling on to so many unfathomable things.

People hold onto another person,or memories,good or bad,or different struggles of their life.They carve a special place in the niche of their hearts for these people.Yes you will say it is love, but one day when that person abruptly leaves them, their lives are shattered into a million pieces just like a mirror to bring in bad luck!
From my own personal experiences i say that people find it very hard to let go off a loved one.
Some how in this strangely working universe, this absence leaves a hollow space, an emptiness of sorts within each one of us.And its very difficult to fill in this hollow space.
Out of the fear of the unknown, people prefer to hold on to the familiar sufferings.I can rightly say that this will hinder one's personal growth, will make one shrivel up inside like an old leaf, and be unaware of the beautiful things happening around them.

I am writing this as a freshman, yes i am new to the whole 'College" experience but i can assure you, letting go of all my past struggles, challenges,bad memories and yes of course my mistakes which i had then deeply regretted, has really helped me open my eyes and broaden my mind a bit more than the usual(I am not gonna exaggerate).I am a person who finds it really tough to let go of anything, may it be some big struggle or some small snide remark by any person.

Is one afraid of repeating the same circumstances of the past and hence not moving forward?If it is so, then how would one adapt to change of any kind.While learning biology in junior college my teacher would keep on quoting Darwin's basic principle;SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.And this is as much applicable to real life as it is to the evolutionary studies!

If you aren't ready to let go, you would not survive in this dog eat dog world.You would not open up to any new experiences or any other person what or who could really create a much more severe impact in your life.Basically you are not ready to give yourself a chance.In doing so you are not only adding misery to your own life but also directing it towards someone who doesn't need it.THINK!


Stephen King said, some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.

Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it. 

Why is it so difficult to just let go?Why do we keep wondering about 'what might have been'?For once just stop all this thinking and BREATHE!
Get yourself detached from all these cruel "rattraps" of the world.Stay aloof because you are not going to leave anything behind besides your thoughts and deeds. Your deeds should be selfless and that is what is gonna make them immortal and universal.

Now I'd love to go back to mesmerizing myself in the romantic scene outside my window and loosing myself in the novel I'm currently reading with a nice cup of coffee!