Quite often I stare at the sky and forget the world. Look and look. The sky looks like an unending blue field. White cotton flowers scattered across this unending landscape. Change romps there, uninterrupted. Even in the slowness of life, it’s dizzying how fast it changes. Nothing stands as it was. A curtain of white clouds would rush in and when it disappears I wouldn’t be able to recognize what it left behind. The blue. The blotches of white. Complete and absolute.
It was so unbelievably bright; it hurt my eyes at first. I didn’t squint. I looked on defying the brightness and it challenged me. The brightness increased. The white grew brilliant and the blue grew deeper.
Unicorns must gallop there. Dreams must be born there.
He interrupted me. I hated to look away. He seemed to think I was wasting time. He said he hates wasting time, lazing around like this.
I looked back; the sky now looked red to my eyes. How is admiring a waste of time? How is anything a waste of time? And how is sitting before a machine nine hours a day a use of time? I hate being constantly admonished if I am not being productive? Making something. Anything. Does not matter. But it should be tangible.
Looking at the sky has a rhythm. It’s addictive. Just like walking. It’s lonely in the beginning. Maybe you wanted to save a couple of notes from the auto fare or suddenly got health conscious and then start regretting it. But if you keep at it you start getting used to the rhythm. It needs no effort then.
There is a rhythm to writing too. Once I take on the pen and paper, my thoughts flow. It’s like meditating. Making me think about what I wouldn’t want to think. What I’m scared to think of. What I have hidden within me for years. When I write for myself I please myself. A beginning, middle and end never matter. I don’t need to make sense. I don’t need to have a train of thought.