It has been long. Not much has changed. Time, however, does seem to have passed.
I realise I haven't been writing too often. In fact, I can scarcely recall what I ever wrote about.
There comes the time when you don't feel obligation towards anyone but yourself, or the motivation is lacking. You feel that emotion has dried up temporarily. You are compelled to await the arrival of the next monsoon to reinvigorate your senses. Until then, you are tempted to revel in complacency.
Going through my archive, I fail to reconcile with the fact that I wrote some of those pieces. The humour doesn't appeal to me any more. I struggle to comprehend how I sold myself and exaggerated to amuse and appeal. Maybe it was because I was at a point in my life different from what I am in at present.
Then again, who can truly say?
I bid thy leave at present, promising to return very soon. And honour it, I shall.
2 comments:
finally someone decent enough to leave a 'farewell till another day note' :)
I'm always surprised at everything I write at a later date. 'Did I write this?' is what comes to my mind.
I'm sure most of us can say this about our writing. I don't think we were different when we wrote them, merely in a happier/sadder/melancholic/etc. state of mind.
Or maybe we do change.
Then again, who can truly say?
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