Untitled-I or The Diary of Someone Me

The second burst is here...and things are back the way they seemed a week ago.

The contrasting reactions that monsoons elicit from living beings is a subject of poetry as much as of research. So romantics and lonely hearts would continue providing diverse perspectives to the deluge (of emotion) in their hearts.

I see the path as I look out my room-beyond the verandah-as if inviting me to make the journey once more-to some neverland I passed by fleetingly as much as accidently-like they were pretty picture postcards in an album. Why do I now feel like re-visiting them so much? Why is it human nature to miss something only after it has been left behind in time?

But the worn pathway also renews itself by scrubbing itself of its dusty path and putting on its new fresh-green robe after bath. It tells me that what once was a monument now lies dissolved in space waiting for the laws of matter to give it a new dimension and identity. What seems new might have its source in the flakes of past- a seed sown not by volition. The cycle of life. Re-invention. Genesis.

To my right is a source of learning that i hardly visit. I see a stream of disciples wading in and out of the pool of knowledge-some with freshness from a spring stream-some with comfort from the ambience writ large on their faces. Where's the sauna again?

The scene of the morning knocks at the doors again-the plough at the field doing the rounds and the early/late birds waiting for the upheaval to throw up the next oppurtunity of survival. Isn't that the essence then, of each life?