Just a few minutes short of calling it a week. Another one starts in those very few minutes. Made a handful of stops at the cafe today. Alone first, with a buddy next and with the old bunch thereafter. Fully coherent words out of mouths only sounded like sputters - all credit to the noisiest day of the year.
When I say the noisiest day of the year, I remember referring to it as the glorious day too, a few years ago. There was a queer sense of joy to this festival. Those celebrations that took the shape of a full moon by the eve began only were embryonic. From stealthy sessions of fire-cracking to approved hours under parental vigilance. New clothes and sweets with no healthy-yet-hard slaps on the shoulder from the mother.
The above paragraph could be totally misleading in its tone - for it may concede an illusion that I miss this festival. Actually, I don't. It's just one of those nameless days - leisure enough in their passing to allow me while away without looking at the clock for lunchtime.
I can totally relate to the annoyed uncle johns of the neighborhood; whose irritation only grows with time as night gets deeper, yet the sky gets brighter; one firecracker at a time. It discomfits me that one blaring, long night among relatively calmer days of a year sets us off to a great extent. It's only at the nib of my thought - I may want to give this more thought and time to think further. You can expect more on this in one of the posts in future.
I've been typing this small piece for as long as 30 minutes now. Which is surprisingly long for my diary pieces. Maybe that's what leisure allows one to do - whiling away.
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