Four months have passed since I last wrote, (if you can call that writing). I do not know whether to owe it to sheer laziness or maybe the more elite phase of a "writer's block", but then again as my adopted grandfather (who comes free for anyone studying what I do) would ask "What's in a name?"
Much has happened during these past months. I have been home and back, and in sometime i will go home again.I will not say things have changed, but they have surely happened. I have seen some brilliant days, some of which I spent taking a simple free bus ride to a hitherto unexplored part of the hills. I have spent afternoons hearing out my strangely loud cum musically gifted(?) baby cousin. I have learned that a lens can offer more than a new way of viewing colours. It can offer an alternate reality.I have learned that not every happiness is describable with words and that the hardest thing to so describe is the feeling of contentment, of peace. Because bliss is simply too personal, simply too simple. As I watched, certain bonds were strengthened between me and some old friends while some others got frayed, strangely with older ones still.
I have been trying to change for years now, seeing as how almost everything and everyone around me has. For the better or not, forever or not, I cannot say. But it has taken me these four months to realise that change of self is not a state. If it is just a whimsical adornment, it can be but momentary.It is a process that does not always necessarily mean improvement. I can safely say that if it is a process, then it has finally begun for me, albeit in small proportions.
I still feel the need of a lot of things that I cannot have because I simply cannot go back in time, nor be someone that will be good enough to be valued by all, or even anyone else. But now, the fact that certain ambitions are simply "not to be had" is sinking in. And I am nurturing the hope that maybe, just maybe, I will not really even need them.
This post will not work out to be very long because well, it does not need to be. I am waiting in the middle of things to figure themselves out (because if I try to, I will simply end up mutilating them), and I am afraid it is not a very prose-friendly place to be as of now.
If the ancient tradition of viewing life as a journey holds any water, then I have spent countless days being afraid that I am not equipped or prepared for the one my life looks like it will turn into. But maybe this particular journey has no space for preparations, because more-often-than-not, it is without a destination. What it is about is the kind of perception with which you look out of the window and which little tea-shops you make a stop at. What makes it different is that you get to choose your own milestones. There are many things you never want to forget and more things still that you would want to. But whether or not that happens, there is always the next turn up ahead.
