1. I eat fruits. Fallen on ground.
2. It takes me a lot of time to make-up my mind to write. I would have preferred sitting quietly, watching the setting Sun, the dance, birds frolicking, chirping and returning to nests in various groups.
3. Even in the recreated identity and objective : my efforts tend to fall off on their own. Sometimes it’s pain, at others it’s pain by proxy.
4. There’s a transmuted liquid. It tastes good. It’s elixir according to some texts. It has only given me fanciful dreams. It’s the liquid which plays these games. It gets vital or weak. The liquid has desires. It’s the desire to live and experience.
5. You’re advised to shun pleasure and prolong life. The wisest have advised to fight death. Death is ego. Ego is thought. Thought structures come to regular end. First it were events which seemed fatalistic then it becomes repeated occurrence.
6. The objectives I created as excuse for living are found to be falsehood. The reality asserts itself vehemently.
7. It often seems like: waking up from dream clouds. Again and again. Identities only work until there are users. They’re usually players. The people in the surrounding who have a weak understanding of reality.
8. Even the passing verses of greatest adepts don’t provide solace. This yearning is an all consuming fire. All relations, identities and roles get burnt in it. I tried to fit but there was never any reality to any of it.
9. I get the true meaning of adjective loftily.
10. The silence feels heavenly. I read a bit from Fountain of Ethics in Hindi. Yesterday I read a prologue by Hazari Prasad Dwivedi. On autobiography of Bana Bhatta who wrote Kadambari. He was contemporary to Harsha. Ideas of Catherine : the lady who inspired him to work on completing the book were eye opener. She thought her life was wasted as she was woman. She chide him for being lazy despite being a man. She told him about even European women being shy and unable to work as much as men because of the limitations imposed by the nature.
11. Crescent moon is just above my head. Peeping through three wires. Everything I say or do, unto you, seems to be cheap substitute of some higher existence, as if it was available, right here and now, except it isn’t.
12. Most people keep postponing life. Giving up on even the small pleasures with hope of some heavenly gains. Then it’s too late. I am not one of those.
13. I often think if poetry is more than exercise of imagination. In that sense it’s not taken apart from reality. Imagination is more powerful than reality to give you unreal expectations. Unreal anxieties and sometimes working as foundation for ideas which become reality: our day to day life.
14. Batlings are dancing in zig Zag patterns. Mosquitoes dance. Another twilight. Peace.