Words

Its still me
But its not
How can that be
Maybe I've changed a lot!!

I have been yearning to write for a long time and I have kept postponing it every now and then and suddenly it seems to me as if I never wrote at all. Nostalgia grips me as I leaf through my old lines and I wonder how I had managed to write them all. Silently a yearning takes hold of me, but the frustrating combination of lack of time and inspiration that have killed the Michaelangelo in many a soul, dulls the sharp edges of want and I give up. "Maybe another time", "Maybe another place" ... more often its never... The feelings and emotions that have been jostling to make themselves heard sink back into the morasses of rigmarole and routine.

So you might wonder if this is an effort to break the shackles... an amateurish effort to rise against the professional prowess of "Paucity of Time". It is, but it would be wrong to miss the duality.

The pen is an anasthetic, it hides behind the facade of ink, the wounds; that are their Muse and the kind words of agreement and praise are the balm that unknowingly soothes the hidden wounds. Contorted ways of drawing solace, but I think thats the way the mind often works.

The written Word is also cathartic... it cleanses the mind of baggage that becomes too heavy to bear. It plays on the oft repeated psychological phenomena that sharing pain helps to reduce it. I have still not realised how it works. Maybe there is solace in shared knowledge.

Thats a good start i think. But...

The woods are lovely dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...