August 5th 2019

August 5th 2019

Today was a day of feeling of being doped and dragged down. I had to take the children to play badminton as the PE of our school was sick. It was an interschool contest. When we went register the students, lo to our surprise, we were asked to present their birth certificates. I had a tough time phoning the school and asking the principal there to email it to the host school. The PE of our school did not coach the children at all and to make matters worse the children were not aware of the rules. Though we lost, we lost by a narrow margin. It was a boring day for me. I could not smoke also I am became at ease after dropping the children at their homes.

There is a strange custom here in Kerala. Many Hindus hang idols of their Gods along that of Jesus and Mary and send decorative lights all over the idol. Is Jesus and Mary an idol? Isn’t the idolatry inherent in Catholicism a diabolic hocus-pocus? I would call this as an idiom meaning Confused. I am confused means accepting Hindu and Christian beliefs at the same time. The shop keeper is confused.

What to writer now? I have written all of a day’s happening. Writing is a fluidic meaning of recollecting and mentally positing experiences. It’s good to recall thoughts? Thoughts are symptoms of a pathological narcissism. The muse dies in painful agony with every word. The muse then resurrects with a new thoughts. Sad to say, that the muse is very sporadic. The desire to write is found deep within. It stems from a flow of eclectic thought. Words bounce like bouncer. It’s a wonder as to how words get recalled from stored memory. Writing is the knack for the uncanny. Writing is a staggering effort in streams of consciousness. There is no fixed time for writing. Writing is always in the process of renewal. Writing is like the four seasons: summer, spring, autumn and winter. Writing is an enigmatic artifact. A writer succumbs to the poetry of prose. Writing is a stoic ornament. Writing is battle for the writer and catharsis for the reader. I would love to adorn the gift of writing. Writing is a indwelling of catharsis and angst. Writing is the soul of nature. Writing is the poetry of hope. Writing nourished the soul to a new well of becoming. The reasons to write are many. Writing is a fugitive disguising words in veils of poetry. Writing anchors the body to an epiphany of ecstasy. Writing is tool of the optimist to forecast a bright future. Writing is an awakening of hope. Sometimes writing is a black rose of death. The fiery zeal of the writer is autonomous to celestial designs. Writing is the passion of poetry. Writing is the breath of living in literature. Writing catapults the soul to dizzy raptures with the divine chorus of heavenly rhythms.

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