timely interventions through writing--Sunday Scribblings

Creative writing was not something I gave much thought into. I never even considered writing poetry. If anyone had told me, I would be writing poetry sometime in my life, I would have laughed. Yes, I wrote great essays, even great excuses in my leave applications but poetry or stories, never.

It simply came by chance. Someone I met online asked me to join a forum of writers. He said I have the aptitude and talent for it. For three months, I pondered over it. Then one day he asked me to submit a story for a forum and I did. I started with short stories, than wrote a lot of 55 words stories too along with haiku. One day I experimented on poetry and never looked back since then. I basically taught myself poetry. I looked into structured poetry and experimented with that..sonnets, villanelles, pantoums, triolets, sestina, terza rimas--you name it, I did it. I have my phases of writing. I can go on writing structured poetry..it gives me a certain discipline. I can give myself a free rein with the more popular free verse. It gives me a kind of release. I can switch from one to the other, with relative ease.

I discovered that creative writing is an outlet for what I had mostly kept within me. I write on vast on varied issues. I try not to be repetitive. I re-invent myself in each of the verse I write. I have taken to blogging. However, what I post on this blog is miniscule of what I write. Somedays, I can't stop writing. And when I can't write poetry, I resort to writing book reviews. That way I am able to overcome my writer's blockade. Believe me, it is very much there and somedays words simply don't come out.

Writing for me is encapsulated in a time machine, in more ways than one. I have come a long way since May 2005 when I started writing. Blogging has given me that extra push towards that, ie , time travel. One can go back, stay at present or go ahead while writing. You can't stop the mind from journeying. In any way it desires. Thay way, it cannot stagnant.

teachers bleed too, if only you understood that

for twelve years, you came to us
each day a new dawn-
a much loved daughter of your parents
pampered by two older brothers.
still, completely unspoilt
nothing was out of reach
nothing was denied
yet you never demanded-
maintaining a balance.
your friends adored you
teachers liked you
(owning this, is a rarity, believe me!)
last day of school
on the eve of your school leaving exams
you took our blessing, good wishes.

what happened in the next fifteen minutes
you went home and hanged yourself?

girl, empowerment is sharing too-
if you had only understood that
we could have saved a precious life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I post this simple worded verse, raw and unedited. I am not coming back to improve upon it. I can't when the heart is bleeding. This happened on 25th of February, 2008. One of the students (17 years old) came to school, collected her admit card for the school leaving exams commencing from 1 March, 2008. Went home and hanged herself to death within the next 15 minutes. In moments like this, I question myself, where did we go wrong?

lubricating

closed tight, your eyes push me away-
tears cascade down your cheeks.
you are so distant from me-
why don't you consider my feelings?
your well being is foremost for me.

apology is not in order,
don't let me force the issue.
just open up and let me in-
lubricating the dryness
attained by too much misuse.

come on now, don't be coy-
as per doctor's prescription's
squeeze me in. hurting is not my forte-
as eye-drops go, I am pretty mild-
still, tears cascade down your cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't like this at all. I somehow lost interest halfway through. Maybe this is a signal for me to stop blogging.

jumping from the cliff to prove my love?

contemplating in the eerie silence of forest
where the occasional sound is that of the wilderness
all alone in my tent,
I am fighting for love
oh, don't worry I do not doubt yours for me.
in all that maze one of us has to be sane-
as you can't do it, I take the mantle.
my withdrawing to myself is not coldness. it is
compressing my love until I yearn to explode
to splinters, burning in passionate embrace.
explanations? you need platitudes? all I can say is-
it’s either fable or truth and that’s based on your perception.
don't you realise,
your movements have seduced me
to do what was incomprehensible before?
now that i did-
your mere words become a weapon
to hit at me. you with your insecurities
think that you do not deserve
my deep, intense emotions,
which in a way sustain me.
or else I am in a way of speaking-
mere breaths from dying.

"I will not bargain for love
either you accept it
or forget it altogether"

The italized lines are donated by jillypoet, lirone, scott, mariacristina, sara and paisley for patchwork poetry.

coiled and cocooned

she unwrapped the garden hose

watering the flowering pots
droplets of water fell on her skirt

soundlessly her lips formed the words-
"do you ever think of me
when storm rages, trees sway

when clouds make love to the earth
with the help of the rains
soaking it sopping wet

spring emerges as a naughty child
desiring to play with harsh summer
giving way to serenity of autumn

do winters bring longing
to feel one with me
closely cocooned by me forever"

neatly she coiled the garden hose
shaking the droplets of water
wringing her skirt dry, she left

Come ride the Poetry Train...

snooty to boot

I dedicate this very raw poem to my 1983 batchmates of Lady Irwin Sr Sec School. Anyone of my batchmates who criticizes this, gets to write another one! Others, feel free to critique it! Rob, you came up with a perfect prompt which made my adrenalin flow at the right time. Thanks!

twenty five years-
is it not too long
to get reacquainted
how do we recognise
each from the other
presuming we became

from giggly school girls
to responsible women
with character lines
wobbling tummies
sagging eyes, a child
or two tagging behind.

from pencil thin jeans
to baggy hideous clothes
reading stupid romances
to juggling financial figures
where do we start
where do we end

do I need to be reminded
of my stupid mistakes
or silly immature dreams
or my puppy fat
always hungry look
short of money
in the torn pockets-

those fights over notes
never over guys
snooty to boot
basketball scored high
much better than those
neighbourhood school boys

sharing of tears
over adolescent fears
a single pimple
brought us to the brink
secrets shared in the midst
of doing math sums

only a miniscule of what
I want to convey
yes, I wish for a second chance
to bring back those memories
and having done that-
make new ones.

batch of '83- come, let us be together.

chequered shadows

raging storm stopped
leaving behind remained quietness
slowly lassitude settled in,
bringing with it peace,
seeping out of each pore,
satiated to the brink.

each single breath evened out
eyes fell heavy
lashes casting chequered shadows
on silken smooth cheeks
dewy lips settled
palms open towards the sky

his fingers entwined with hers
his head fell on her disarrayed hair
in aftermath of passion
he pulled her closer
nuzzling her ears
saying sweet nothings.

"next moment he was snoring away to glory"

submerge

This one is from my archives. I played around a bit, changing a word or two.

in the stillness of night
if you persist
in being that close to me-

I will have to find a way
to plunge myself
into your luminous soul.

digging into fruit punch

his white t-shirt splattered with mud
grass staining it green,
he kept digging hard soil
sweat streaked down his body
doggedly he went on
smoothening the wide trench
he paused, admiring his handiwork-
took a swig from his fruit punch.

dragging the bag from the boot of his car
he buried it deep, marking it
with imaginary trees
for future reference, just in case.
no way he would come back for his dead wife
he had not killed her to get back to her.
he walked to his car, stopped. looking back
took another swig from his fruit punch.

possessed by some demons, he drove away
fast. with cool deliberation he went over the cliff
his car caught fire before blowing up.
who can unravel what were his last thoughts?

an ode for convoluted crevices

deep crevices
absorb sound, churning it for the brain
convoluted shells weigh reverberating words
lobes soft
bitingly so
pierced, decorated with love.
you deserve stars
I settle for second best-
I let you sparkle with diamonds
set in matt finished platinum.
my closest confidants
of my lover's naughty whispers,
I write this ode for you,
my much treasured ears.

Come ride the Poetry Train...

Snooze time, baby!----Sunday Scribblings

Please switch off the light and close the door when you leave. Let me catch up with my sleep. I will get a scribbling done when I get up refreshed in the morning after brushing my teeth.

I think most of you would agree with me and please, no loud music!

Don't you wish, we could all say this at one time or the other?

We can never have enough of it. I have been known to sleep for hours and hours during weekends. That was mostly when I was studying.

I can never sleep for more than 5 hours at night. Rest I catch up with, taking a siesta or in the weekends. I inherited that trait from my dad. He was the classic night owl. However, he never slept during the day or in the weekends. He just did not need much sleep. He used to spend his waking hours reading or writing. I think I am emulating him. Or well in the way of following him. In next few years..:D

Nonetheless, I do have problems sleeping in a new place. It takes me a while.

Anyway, no more talks. Now you go, let me sleep in peace. One more thing, you got any good lullabies?

seeds travelling through time

an unguarded statement does not need to represent
having its consequences in whispers,
confidentiality disappears
innermost garden stands in attention
pockets on your shirt are torn
you fidget with it nervously

blackboard is sans words before I arrive
enigmatically blank, enough to be useful
so I cold step into it at my will-
chalk unrolling in an inevitable procession
what you do not know can hurt you

take away vacant, posed imperviousness
absorb the essence of life’s lessons
growing up is travelling through time
be equipped best way you can

I can sow the seeds, you go nurture those

itchy, scratchy, welted

small fissures on the skin was nothing new for her
red dots appeared randomly when she had stress
without rhyme or reason
her travel plans had come up
along with it the eruptions which skewed everything
this time those itchy parts felt foreign to her touch
from elbow to wrist

what? how many centimetres of skin affected?
you can't expect her to do it in the arithmetic way-
not when she is busy scratching those welts

*Update: This isn't about me. It is a fictional piece written for [Fiction] Friday and Friday 5. I got smooth skin!

a remnant of violence staring out of nought

aren't you going to save those precious tears
falling on sidewalks in this rain
sparkling into thousands of pieces
before disintegrating into underground drains
muck in the sewage might trap those
soul of tears would split, stinking
cleansing away blood and gore
a remnant of violence staring out of nought
mythically disproportionate
to marauders plundering
numbness induced by shock
stroke the memories like a flame
dear editors, why would you even bother to look
over your mugs of black coffee tasting so sinful
you might as well let the saviour fall
plummeting between two towering rock mountains
splintering into thousand deaths
while you entertain the powers to be
indulging them for your selfish needs

The lines taken for patchwork poetry in the order from Mariacristina, paisley, sara and jillypoet.

Questions are like whirlwinds with no outlet

At last, the impossible happened. I did not read for the whole week. A book, that is. I read newspapers, text books, exam papers and anything that is to do with teaching. There are few books which are in various stages of reading. Somehow I have lost that zeal to read. For a person, who stays up late to read, I have been sleeping early. That is around, 10 pm.

In a way, I did nothing. I watched TV, blogged-updated my blogroll and kind of lazed around. I did not even venture out much unless it was for work and/or for essential errands. I wrote for three days and rest of the week, it simply stopped. No words, nothing.

Maybe the winters is getting to me. Delhi never has winters for more than a month. This year February has not been kind. Too cold. Despite the fact that we don't have snow here. It's the wind that gets to the bones. The minimum temperature is around 5-9 degree celsius. It should have been 16-18 degree celsius.

I suppose my mind needs to relax. I have been thinking too many things lately. Maybe giving in to it is the best option. Questions are like whirlwinds with no outlet. I too am fallible, although I try to pretend otherwise. Pain gets dulled, does it ever go away? It can't be healed which has scrapped raw. At times like this, I miss my dad.

I will go, play scrabble online to unwind. Or crossword puzzles are good options too. Or gossip with a girlfriend. Anything to tax the brains.. In no time I would be thinking, I imagined it all.

What? I AM GOING TO BE OK? I know that, folks! Don't slight me by saying it!

A common enough story in broken lines

This is raw and unedited. One instant writing. Feel free to critique it. And do not forget to ride the Monday Poetry Train either.

piggybacking her, he walked out to the sun
Her pallor was so pale like washed out colour of the moon
Her sickness had lasted all through the winter
She whimpered, it was a good sound after her quietness
He smiled and tickled her almost skeletal ribs
High pitched, she laughed out loud
He carried her to the reclining chair,
Sitting her on his lap, wrapped his arms around her
Her thin arms reached his neck and she smothered him with tiny kisses
He felt intense happiness
She was asleep in no time
Doctors had given up on her
He had immense faith
He could not afford to lose her
She was all he had for the last six years since he had lost all his family
He had had no time time grieve for them
What was gone was gone
One lived for the living

What had he really given up
Only a stupid university degree
The land took care of their needs
He would never uproot her from her legacy
Whispering sweet nothings, he pulled his little sister closer

Spaced out----Sunday Scribblings

Her gold hoops touched her shoulders when she moved.
Those suited her classic features and olive complexion.
Nonchalant about her surroundings, she sipped at her tea.
Company was not welcome.
Coping with death of a long time partner was not easy.
Everyone knew, she was learning to live without him
Sadness in her demeanour was not very encouraging for anyone to approach
Respectful of her wishes, no one intruded upon her solitude
Paying for her tea, she walked out
Head held high, a smile playing on her lips
She shopped for grocery, all her favourite things
It could not have come sooner, his death
She welcomed wholeheartedly the space in her life and her fridge
The arsenic had done its work well

endless possibilities

Lately his fluidity of motion was gone
He was controlled with a sense that was somehow scary to her
He was out in the flowing river barely visible, she kept looking at time.
She had made sure, their watches synchronised.
Swimming back, without a word, he lay down besides her
Barely noticing her
Something has changed, she could not figure out the reason
His manner towards her was like painting, very formal, careful strokes
At night, he could not stay away from her
His passion burning bright like stars
Come daylight, as if the stars did not exist
She considered all the bad possibilities
It was a dive into the unknown
Whale’s song intruded into her thoughts
She shivered beside him
Turned towards him, she buried her face into his neck
He pulled her closer, sharing his warmth with her
Changed? Nothing had changed
His love for her had ripened
It could only get better with age

10 to 10---I did 11!

I have been tagged by Juliet Wilson for this. The idea is to do ten verses about me, and then issue the challenge to ten others. As it about writing poetry, I decided to do the meme. This is not in any particular order. Here I take Option Three: Pick Three of Cafe Writing February Project. Pick any three words from: astonished, conclusion, drown, gilded, hands, magnify, snow, time. Also for [Fiction] Friday Challenge: Flip a coin. Heads, and your characters hates Valentine's Day, Tails, and they love it. Now come up with the reason your character feels the way they do.

rock music playing loudly, I drown-
synchronising my steps,
my fingers tap furiously on the keyboard-

I write my dancing thoughts,
giving it a semblance of order
magnified in the form of poetry.

mathematics equates to my line of work
where I interact with children-
goggle eyed to receive knowledge.

green earth attracts, soothes-
earthy browns, mustard yellows
willow in my mind’s vision.

internal dialogues are nothing new
for me. I resolve my problems talking to
myself out of it or into it.

smell of books draw me into a world
so very different from my own-
teaching me so much while doing so.

holding a cup of tea, I savour that aroma-
indulging myself with many a cup
filled with antioxidants, over the day.

my finger rings reflect the rays of the sun-
my only weakness in jewellery;
no other embellishments interest me.

loose tees, many pocketed cargos along
with snickers, is my favourite attire-
comfort being the keyword always.
withdrawing into myself, I like being alone
in my own skin. loneliness is a word
which is not there in my dictionary

spewing disapproval on vulgar display
of love, it matters not a fig, flipping coin
may go either way for valentine!

conclusion in a nutshell is that I lead
a pretty normal, boring life-
wishing for scandals in abundance.

Now the tagging bit! Instead of 10, I am tagging 11!

Catherine,
chris sapp,
Don Iannone,
dnake1,
floots,
ghost particle,
ozymandiaz,
steve
square1,
tammy,
tumblewords

All my poet/non-poet friends are welcome to do the meme. Remember, you have to write ten things about yourself in verse form!

Packed and Delivered---Totally Optional Prompts

Package arrived in the late afternoon, around lunchtime.
He was glad that there was no one else to see him sign for it
Valentine day was round the corner.
He wanted to surprise here with this particular gift.
What woman could resist the shiny sheen
After thirty-seven years, he knew her inside out, her interests, her likes, dislikes
With the thoughts of giving this mystery gift to her, familiar feelings warmed his insides
He opened the packaged, touched it, admiring the craftsmanship
Held in his hand, swirled it, appreciative of the finishing
He could not wait to get home, see the astonished look in her eyes before she closed it
It was a dream present by any standards

Day passed so slow like dawn ascending from darkness in a rain filled cloudy night
The package burned a hole in his jacket pocket.
Anticipation was almost killing him
Driving with maddening pace, he arrived before the grand party
Turned the key, he felt day light knocked out him
He fell on the creamy tiles, his splattered brains trickling over, colouring those bright red
He was never to know, she had ordered a similar package, containing the slickest of guns.

“She got to him, before he got to her”

Introducing myself by the way of poetry---3WW

Bridge, Disturbed, Still

sb poet of watermark fame wants us to introduce ourselves. In the way of poetry. No, not by writing poetry. That I will do in another post for which I was tagged. I have taken her questions too. Please do introduce yourself here or on your blog. Just don't forget to link back here or to sbpoet! You can change these questions or make your own.

• Do you read poems?
• If no, why not?
• Do you write poems?
• If yes, whatever for?
• What, for you, makes a poem a good poem?

Do you read poems?

Yes, of course I read poetry. I read all the older as well as newer poets, Shakespeare, Wordsmith, Keats, Byron, Browning, Burns, Frost, Yeats, Syvia Plath (Some may get disturbed reading Plath but her words carry a lot of power), Dorothy Parker, Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, Charles Simic to name only a few.

Do you write poems? If yes, whatever for?

Yes, I do. All the time. I taught myself to write it. Why do I write it? To give an outlet to my creativity, I take up a lot of social issues in my poetry. I give vent to my feelings. I express myself via poetry. Poetry helps me understand myself. Poetry can bridge the gap left by emotional upheaval, in our heart and soul. It gives me a certain direction. There is some compulsion to write it down. Sometimes it gushes out. Others, I make myself write it. Many times what I intended to write flows in another direction. I seldom write intensly personal poetry. Or love poetry. Still, reading poetry is more pleasurable than writing it down.

What, for you, makes a poem a good poem?

That which moves me deeply, creates vivid images in my mind, is well worded, conveys by speaking out to me. Understanding the poem is important. Using words, which don't make sense fails in the very purpose of poetry writing. Symbolism too should be such which touches our very soul. I like both simple poetry as well as complicated ones.

What puts you off while reading poems ? Online or otherwise?

I will take online poetry. Most are written instantly and are really good. However, I am put off by misspellings and bad or improper usage of punctuations. (*Update: I corrected it here. I think it distracted people from talking about what I wrote before.)

Making my day excellently!

**Do visit my other blog and leave your comments for a very interesting post for a novel written to be by me.

In the past week, I got two awards from 3 blogging friends. For this blog, I was given two awards, You make my day award from Marie and Excellent award from Sage. I also received You make my day award from Dewey for my other blog, My Own Little Reading Room, where I mostly write reviews and book related posts. That blog is updated 3-4 days a week. This one, 5-6 days a week.

Now one has to pass on these awards to 10 other blogging friends giving reasons for bestowing those. 10 for each award makes it 20! Mind you, the list is alphabetical. As for as I am concerned, both carry equal weightage.

First I take the You make my day award.



Framed: A book blogger. I like her way of reviewing books. Very cool and objective. I have added a few to my TBR pile from her reading lists and reviews.

Floots: His poetry is, I feel out of this world. Reading it takes us on a journey of sorts. His photographs are awesome. I like his dry humour in his works.

Literary Feline: She too writes cool reviews. I like her booking through thursdays posts as well as friday fill in posts. Best thing is, I like her name!

Pat Paulk: He writes truly beautiful poetry on mundane things of life. I caanot even imagine how he does it. Someday I hope I can write such beautiful poetry on the most ordinary of things. Do go read his poetry. You will know what I mean.

Polona: She writes beautiful haigas. To the point and precise. Her pictures are very good.

Ravenous Reader: I have known her for her poetry and prose pieces. However, she has started this book blog and I finding visiting this blog more often. I like her posts..reviews, reflections on reading etc. BTW, she is always giving out books! That is one reason you must visit her. :D

Remiman: He writes both poetry and prose. Posts a lot of pictures too. It is a pleasure to read him. I like his sense of humour.

Rose Dewy Knickers: One of the best minds I have come across. She is as cool as Brian. I would say, more. After all, she is my blogging sister. Her posts hit hard. I truly love her.

Sage: He has the ability to make places and people come out alive for you. His travelogues are too good. His book reviews are very well done. He reads mostly non-fiction and with his reviews, he tempts me to do the same. I am waiting for the day when he publishes his travelogues and I write a review for that!

Tammy: Her posts are ever so positive. She is a classic example to how to survive in adversity. She does not seek sympathy. She makes it worth while that life has to be lived despite what comes.

tumblewords: Her art work and poetry complement each other. One of the best poets on the blog world.


Now taking the excellent awards:

Bone: He has a fish named Gabe Kaplan. I don't think I need to say more.

Juliet otherwise known as craftygreen poet: She works towards saving the environment by her poetry. She does posts on recycling. Her posts are very near to nature, the earth and all things contained in it. She reads like anything. I find the coolest books mentioned on her blog. Her poetry is very down to earth.

Donn Coppens otherwise known as homo escapeons: I think I can't really describe him. The datas he comes with for anything in the universe has to be read, no matter what. He taxes my brains. At times, I have been known to scratch my head after reading his posts. No, not because of lice. Maybe, I do not understand what he says...:D

Dewey: No Dewey, I am not giving this as a return one. I think your blog deserves this. You have unknowingly, encouraged me to join challenges. I have picked many books from your reviews. Of course, you are one generous book giver! Folks, another great reason to visit her!

John Mutford: Another book blogger who posts are really good. He writes about book, authors, poets. Very refreshing posts. His The Great Wednesay Compare has to be read and participated. Check him out, folks!

Keith Hillman: I simply love his story telling. I would say he is an excellent prose writer. His stories about one of his friend Rosie, are too good to be missed. All of us love her already.

Mike McCulley: Another poet whose work is awesome. He can tell us a whole story in a poem. With vivid pictures.

Tara Bradford/Paris Parfait: She gives us great glimpses of Paris. Its art, culture. You name it, she has it. Her blog is not be missed.

Rethabile: He showcases brilliant poets on his blog. Which we would have missed otherwise. He himself writes beautiful poetry. That, which hits hard.

Paul Martin: He has a spiritual blog. Very reflective and thinking posts. One has to visit original faith to know more about him. I admire Paul, his spirit.

Within Without: He is as excellently wacky as his friend, H.E.! I can't leave him out. I don't want them to fight over who deserves it more. Chris, I love you as much as I love Donn, if not more!


Well, I chose 11 for each! You can proudly display the awards, pass it on or do whatever you want to. Throw it even!

one day in the life of a sari

deep mystical eyes with bronzed skin-
silk sari with shades of green,
draping it around, she did preen.
encircling thin golden chain
on her waist added to the sheen.

movement so graceful, fluidly flowing.
hair raven-black, wavy, cascading,
lights from amber sunset, flickering;
richness of her attire, gleaming;
happiness within her sparkling

suddenly her joy was under attack.
every plan of hers went awry, off track
she slipped, almost damaging her back.
now laying on her bed, her mood so black,
gnawing her lower lip looked at an almanac!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is a true account. Kind of narcissistic, isn't it? For three days, I could not move from my bed.

*Update: This happened a long time ago. Now my back is perfectly ok. With regular walks and Exercise.

Do ride the Monday Poetry Train

nothing much

cold, cloudy day. chilled to bones.
standing by the window, nose pressed to glass,
she watches the mist flying by-
hard pressed to see through all that snow.

serrated broken crayons lie there abandoned.
smudged sheet, a mute witness for scrawled lines.
bleakness of weather is beauty for a child
no school, no subsequent homework.

with a sweet smile breaking into her facade
she enjoys enforced break from studies-
wishing for more such wintery rains.
for children, drabness translates to magic.

Fouled up, have you?----Sunday Scribblings

Foul reminds me of everything negative. It is a negative word, after all. We all say, it is so foul, he/she fouled it up, what a foul soul! He/she always plays foul. Something or the other, to this effect. I feel gross is not foul. Gross is well... stinky.

Talking of foulest stench, in India, you cannot avoid garbage dumps even in a place like Delhi or Mumbai. One can see it spilling all over the place. Only way to deal with such a problem is to create awareness. We teachers do try to do it in our own ways. For that, one has to inculcate a feeling of belonging. Public property is considered that, public. No one is responsible for it. So damage, litter, foul it up. Keep your homes clean but who cares about the streets or roads. That is attitude of most people, even the so-called educated ones. I have been my sarcastic best. It has not helped in anyway. Nothing has.

Leaving that, let us talk about certain people and their behaviour. Black-hearted people are revolting, no doubt. However, here I am not going to dwell on that. I want to speak about those who really mess up their lives and then crib about it, their lot, and their plight. They do not know how to let go, do not learn from their mistakes. They are so self absorbed that they do not see beyond themselves. Pessimism becomes a way of life for them. I do agree life is not fair some of the times.

There are circumstances we cannot avoid. Taking it in a broader sense, we do not have control over war and strife. To some extent poverty too. We cannot choose our country, religion(we can change that, as cocaine pointed out, I was not thinking in that direction when I wrote it) and our parents. As a child too, we are dependent on others. Nevertheless, we can choose our direction in life. Wanting something and aspiring for it is a way of life. In a constructive way. But some have misplaced notions about wanting. More and more. Of what? Some chose the destructive way. Fully well knowing what they are doing. When it does not work out the way they had desired, they are unable to accept it.

For them, I say...ok, you knew better, you fouled up your life. I have listened enough. Why don’t you move away from it? It is never too late. I will do what I can for you. I will hold your hand if you wish it. Just do not expect me to sympathise with you. You did it with your eyes wide open. Everything fell apart. You fell down. Now, pick yourself up and get going. Do not foul it up any further. You owe it to yourself. And society at large.

Some might feel I am being harsh. I believe that by pitying, sympathising, we are not doing that person any favour.