The freedom in writing, they (I) say, is about not having to write for anyone. But the revisions happen in my head, repeatedly. And in some struggle, things are given up, things are given a let go, and I type simultaneously.

Many years passed in listening to songs with lyrics.
The lyrics weren't understood most of the time.
But these days, there're these itches that make me google up lyrics of certain pieces that let me travel. It happens that I ultimately like them very much.

FL, I'm besotted with travelling again. Window seat on a second-sitting compartment. Probably some of the Ghats, some coastlines, some temple towns, some abandoned pier, some eucalyptus plantation, some Kalyanam Goshti, some notepad to write empty pages about the travel for readers of the up-market travel magazine I would be working for.

There's an underlying contradiction between Proverbs 9 vs. 10 and John 14 vs. 6.

We, Agnostics who are probably border-line Nihilists don't seem to care. The fundamental nature of truth is never our garb. We'd rather put down things than make them worldly let alone the need for any kind of reasoning.

Sometimes happiness and joy get reduced to the thrill of a monsoon travel. Well, any place that has the monsoons and where moving an inch would be travelling.

Banality Crisis II

Gah, do I have to name this child of mine?
Just call it anything, will you?
I've got other thinking to do.

Summer

Is supposed to be tough on the mind.

Dumb, numb, plum, and other -um sounding things.

And these were the days, my friend.
These were the days.