What am I talking ?

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Tomorrow will bring a new week, and with it a new month. Usually Sunday evenings make me a bit sad cause next day I need to go work after two days of holiday and it has been happening to me since childhood. For several reasons last week didn’t go well, I started my days lazily, like not wanting to go to work yet not wanted to be in home, I didn’t know where to go. I would reach office, would do nothing and feel tired though it was only morning.

I very well know what is going inside me, why I am troubled, why I miss India and yet don’t want to go there, why I miss the city where I grew up yet dread walking through the same streets again. I can’t write that in my blog and I envy those who can at least write these in their blog and vent their feelings. I need answers to several questions that keep bugging me day and night but there is no one to give me answers and I sort of dread getting the answers.

Of late I am doing weird things, every Saturday when I make my regular trip to the library I will pick up the book “The English Patient” and would want to throw it out of the window and make it drown in the bottom of the lake, I would Google for critical appreciation of this book, I would read them and not get satisfied with any of them, I look for someone to fight with me over this book but there is no one. The soundtracks of the movie haunt me yet I keep listening to them. Please some one come to me and say that they feel the same about this book, tell me that it is a farce but beautifully packaged. Tell me that is just melodrama and far fetched from reality, tell me that you hate the book and yet can’t deny …..

I know I what I am saying is not making sense to anyone, but I am tired of talking sense, I want to be what I wish to be even though I can afford it only on this late evening of Sunday and can talk this only with my blog. I want to live like I was on those three days when I was not allowed to think or talk sense; I miss all those who were with me then, the evening when we were eating cake, drinking coffee and laughing over the news about some train accident in India, we all rightfully knew then that all this life, death, feeling, emotions are figments of this materialistic world. The irony was that we were more sensible at that time when the world thought contrary of us.

I would like to quote here the following lines of Lewis Carroll’s poem “The Walrus and The Carpenter “

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."