Written off too early

It is painstaking to be a writer. Or even to be an aspiring one. But what never stops amazing me is that every next person you meet is wishing to be a writer. That offers some sort of comfort to my embattled self. There is still hope and I have still some ground to walk. And of all that I am not alone in the same pursuit.

Calling out for my muse, and all the inspiration that I can lay my hands on, I sit staring at the blank Microsoft word opened in my old, dilapidated laptop. This should be a master-piece I bolster up.

A few minutes after, I find myself still staring on the screen. My mind is pondering, trying to be at its fastest, over a gamut of subjects, experiences, memory and issues that might intrigue a rational mind. After going through what seemed an eternity of scrupulous, thought raking, nothing seems to happen.

I go out for a smoke in the balcony. I drink a cup of sugarless tea, trying to remain focused. I look at the myriad of little worms hovering around the street light. I drift away. These creatures just live a 24-hour-life. How short? What would they do in just one day? It is not fair. But then again, what if every second is like years for them. Twenty four hours would then add to be quite a lot.

Leave that aside, what else would they be doing in a day? They have no purpose to be alive. They are just a part of the process of procreation. How many times would they have mated to keep their bloodline continue?Their existence is so fragile. And so short.

I look up into the sky overwhelmed by the feeling of mercy. In a contrasting shift of visual, huge jumbos fly over head, quite close by. Here every five minutes a plane flies over your head. This reminds me of the CNN clips of 9/11. Flashed over and over again, images of the two planes nose-diving into the twin towers have permanently frozen in my memory. What would have the people in the flat that saw the planes come crushing unto them wish for, before they were no more?

Life is so fragile. And so unsafe. There are thousand and one chances that you can be killed each new day. Survival is in fact everything. When the news of the serial blasts in Delhi sent waves of panic across a bewildered city, I was 'coolly' roaming around a heavily crowded market. I could have been in any of the markets where the blasts took place. Just that I was fortunate to be at the wrong place for all the good reasons.

Blowing out the last puff of smoke, I look up in the sky again. There is barely any star peeping out. My thoughts suddenly transform me to the mountains where I belong. The stars are very close by and every night you see them in zillions. The nights are so beautiful. I still remember, as I child, how we would sleep under the stars, counting them. Here it easy to count the stars. There are about five visible stars I can see.

I look down from the balcony, and watch strangers pass by. There is so much to write about, I think. Tomorrow I will give a fresh shot.