After a too hectic fortnight, finally settled on the expanded couch with my three year old to watch the re run of The Revenge of Fallen-Transformer, on lazy Sunday.
Some times to think of out, our childhood was pretty deprived in the sense that we never had such movies in those times. Wonderful theme, wonderful performance and marvellous dialogues like ," Sam, fate rarely chooses us at the time of our choosing." I believe such words are way too portions for the age at which the movie is targeted but out would be wonderful if kids at that age could put some mind about it, to pause and ponder. I sometime do feel many of these jewels I would have missed, had it not been for my daughter. As she grows and get little selective about movies she wants to watch on Sunday mornings, I have already started missing those popcorn laden Sundays, she to my surprise refused to go watch Batman last weekend in favour of shopping trip with her mother. I do wonder in a tiny sorrow as feminist traits stepping into her kiddy world draws her away as she behind liking the pink and things like that.
In between we stumbled on the digital frame with her old pictures, set it up to see one again her hairless head and toothless grin. Need to collate some more pictures and populate the frame. It just reminded me of new set eyes which I had gained for years back that made me watch a whole new set of movies which I never thought existed, starting from Kung fu Panda, and which made the world around me so vivid in colours and so resplendent in a new light.
I almost gave up writing for good seven to eight years. A period during which I wrote nothing but office mails and minutes of meetings and contracts and such things, dreary and dull, devoid of any beauty or romance. I would write in my mind, sentences getting written and erased in my mind. I quit smoking right at the turn of the century and the glamor of smoke forming poetry in the air to be scribbled with urgency was lost. So I did not write, until couple of years back a sense of loss, a scary thought of dying with all my thoughts faced me. Something told me I had it in me. It used to be fun. It used to be exceptionally fun in good old, pre-computer days when I would write on a paper with my pen. I felt that I was living half my life, with a half a me, the half which carried the truer sense of me, stifled and locked inside me. I would be loud, obvious, and laugh with the crowd which obliterated and belittled the intensity of thought. I laughed with a voice which scar...
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