Coma

I think a writer is as good as his words, within those words he exists and ceases in their silence. I think I have been silent for awhile now, longer than a while actually. I think, had I been you (and I am indulging in the assumption that you who used to read, are still reading me), I would have safely assumed that these pages will see no more words.

But sometimes the life-support does manage to coerce life into an otherwise comatose existence. Sometimes nerves fire up in an atrophied system, fingers twitch - first a little and then a bit more , finally getting up to do an unsure jig on a forgotten keyboard.

I have been lost in excel sheets, and powerpoints and a tad bit more on the parallel life. I have been left without stories in a city that spoilt me, always with choice, rather than paucity. I have been lazy, and I have been blind.

Now, I choose not to. Instead, I open my eyes.

Hoping that this isn't like one of those new year resolutions that I never take, knowing that they wont last. And that these rains will still inspire and seep into the dried mud of my mind, blooming into lines that carry some finite meaning. Like yesterday when I saw a big rainbow stretch itself along the rainwashed Rajkot-Ahmedabad highway. Each of its ends resting on the bare brown soil, and yet taking nothing away from its blatant beauty.

When I have nothing more, I fall back to songs. Today this is apt.

TIME -Pink Floyd

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but its sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but youre older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the english way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say.

Like they say here in Gujarat, Bhale Padharya. (WELCOME!)