I have..

Reader's Block.

No, seriously. I've been a bookworm the last 21 years, and I've never had such a dry spell before. I absolutely cannot survive without reading a book a week. At the most, a month. Right now, I have some six books i haven't read yet. I have the time, it's just that i can't bring myself to. It's crazy! I started reading Oscar and Lucinda ages ago, stopped at chapter 12 or so, then started with Good Omens only to realize that Pratchett and Gaiman's combined humour really does go over my head. Then I started with Millennium Three: The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest. Thought a thriller would break the jinx. But no. I think I need to do some light reading, find some frilly, romantic book to get back now.

This really sucks.

shooting raindrops at the sun

This shield of vapour,
That refuses to unfog
Not unlike this petty heart
That just will not unclog.

Placid at times, and painless
It almost fools me, does
When the kindly cloak, happiness
Turns shadowy echoes to rust.

If madness is what it will be
I pray, spare me the fate
Sanity weighs down heavier
And that's all i can take.

And then on days like this,
With raindrops kissing the skylight
All i can do is raise my eyes
And drink in the sight.

And just like that i know
It can be more ways than one
There's someone i see outside
Shooting raindrops at the sun.

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Quiet Desperation

I agree with Woody Allen. Life would've been a lot more fun in reverse. I mean, who wants to start with innocence and die a cynic. Well, not all of us ...but I sure seem to be doing it. I'm fighting it all the way, and trying to hide the despair I feel. My friend refuses to believe me when I tell her that I'm becoming a cynic. She laughs at me, says it's impossible. Well. Whatever.

Y'day, while talking to a teamie with whom I have a lot in common(surprising, because I admire her a lot) I learnt that she thought of herself as a failed idealist. I nodded my head, told her I understood because I am one too. I was a passionate person once upon a time. I was the person Wordsworth described in Tintern Abbey. I have always loved the woods, I've wanted to build myself a log-cabin somewhere deep in the woods, and just stay there, away from the crowd. The deep,dark woods evoke something primitive in me, and even today, as I sit in an apartment I know that is where I really want to be.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
(Sylvia Plath. Her poems, though depressing, are mighty cool.)