20 December, 2007

the weather is wonderful


It is. Much as I grumble about the chill on my bare feet as they pad from bedroom to bathroom to terrace. The fog is just lifting, and the struggling rays of the sun are piercing the smog and desolation of a wintry morning. The weather . . . I could write for a lifetime, or merely sigh.

I miss leaves turning all russet and gold and falling. Whole avenues on flame.

I miss snow!

They are stringing the lights all along Park Street. My mind takes countless jaunts in the crisp air - flights of lucid clarity.

Had written a poem. In fact thousands. All in my head. Something, something elusive is lost every time I put the limpid lines in black and white. Like water cupped in your is never like the dark profound depths of the lake in which you had dived.

11 December, 2007


And so ... a reasonably long and tolerably eventful sojourn at high school draws to a close.

As of now, I'm too busy doing things by rote to actually feel anything about it. The routine - yearbooks for friends to scribble in, teacher's sermons, marksheets attested . . . practical exams in the lab.

If anything can be felt by me, it'll come. Later. Apathy. Or a sense of fulfillment. Perhaps a sense of loss riding piggy-back on the broad back of new expectations. Juvenile dilemmas.

"My native land, good night!"
-Lord Byron.

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