Thursday, March 29, 2007

beats me.

Churning out thoughts helps me forget hunger. And somehow improves the quality of my writing. Though what I need right now are carbs, I will suffice with words. I imagine myself to be a hungry albeit splendid author, whose writings no one wills to read until his death. Almost all of that is true, and I leave it to guessing as to which part isn't.
At one point of time, idealism plagued my mind. And then reality hit me. Now I am just indifferent. If you just live your life the way you want to, without bothering anyone else, no one will ask you questions - atleast not in the States. I am happy that America is America and that India will always be India. I like the indifference here, but I love my sense of familiarity there.


We may not speak the same tongue
We may not be from one land
But still we sing the same song
For the same thing we both long
We fish in different waters
But fish for the same fish
We have different sorrows
But for the same laughter we both wish
Different are our colors
Different are our ways
Different as they maybe,
To the same God we will pray.

Color: Burgundy
Song: En mel vizhunda mazhai thuliyei.

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