When every new word I come across pins me to surprise, when every usage of its leaves me drooling for more, I stand with an unsettling desire to just give away myself to writing. I know it sounds a bit far fetched but I can't help shrugging it off either.
A good quarter at work station is dedicated for the personal quest of discovering the lost, digging the unknown & unveiling the concealed. What puts me through 9 hours of strenuous (comfortably risk-free to others, otherwise) is the hope that I shall I one day run away from this. Into far off fields. Into distant meadows.
When I write guides for daily bread which nobody follows, I dream of writing the intertwined tale of overrated totalitarianism & underrated poverty. It remains a dream but the guides etch onto portals, thus onto web & finally read by 'users' who don't know what their author is going through, or to that point, who under sun he is.
The work places resembles London in its smell. In its ambiance That nostril disturbing caffeine hovers in the air, remains still, justifying the much quoted plasticity of work stations. Its painful to read emails which have subjects lengthier than their bodies.
I get back home to read something or watch something but eventually end up sleeping into a slumber. An early morning call from her wakes me up to put me through another day of never ending torment.; of whose extermination I can barely dream but not blessed to live through.
People are talking about friday releases in the loo when jitters cause them to shake their heads before tucking it in. Is it an attempt to establish two unlikely phenomena & desperately trying to make their ends meet? I wonder.
Documents confiscated, schedules upheld & life suspended in disbelief. I dream of her & a day out with her but that too seems like a far off bliss.
I try to put up a smile to every bystander's face in which I am keeping it up; the only thing at which I am recording some consistent success. I dread a phone call & rather am happy keeping to myself. She is an exception though.
Where would all this reflect? Should I stop for once, look back & feel gifted to write this? Or should I curse my agonizing irony that compels me to write 'that' ?
A good quarter at work station is dedicated for the personal quest of discovering the lost, digging the unknown & unveiling the concealed. What puts me through 9 hours of strenuous (comfortably risk-free to others, otherwise) is the hope that I shall I one day run away from this. Into far off fields. Into distant meadows.
When I write guides for daily bread which nobody follows, I dream of writing the intertwined tale of overrated totalitarianism & underrated poverty. It remains a dream but the guides etch onto portals, thus onto web & finally read by 'users' who don't know what their author is going through, or to that point, who under sun he is.
The work places resembles London in its smell. In its ambiance That nostril disturbing caffeine hovers in the air, remains still, justifying the much quoted plasticity of work stations. Its painful to read emails which have subjects lengthier than their bodies.
I get back home to read something or watch something but eventually end up sleeping into a slumber. An early morning call from her wakes me up to put me through another day of never ending torment.; of whose extermination I can barely dream but not blessed to live through.
People are talking about friday releases in the loo when jitters cause them to shake their heads before tucking it in. Is it an attempt to establish two unlikely phenomena & desperately trying to make their ends meet? I wonder.
Documents confiscated, schedules upheld & life suspended in disbelief. I dream of her & a day out with her but that too seems like a far off bliss.
I try to put up a smile to every bystander's face in which I am keeping it up; the only thing at which I am recording some consistent success. I dread a phone call & rather am happy keeping to myself. She is an exception though.
Where would all this reflect? Should I stop for once, look back & feel gifted to write this? Or should I curse my agonizing irony that compels me to write 'that' ?
