After writing the last post, I regretted, I should have shared those fantasies which succeeded my mind when taking those dips and showers.
These days, I’m rather in a world of absolute realities.Creating fantasies were never so difficult as coping up with realities.And,to be simultaneous with these two tasks is the hardest thing.As my mind got involved in these thoughts, the first showers of this summer was hitting the ground.I opened the window.I never liked its scent.But this time, it dint appear that nauseating.I showed a tendency to slip into those fantasies.
It dint take much time 4 me to take out ‘my book of rain’(mazhapustakam).Reading through and between lines.Nanthanar, Uroob, S.K Pottekad..But was shockingly excited before the name, Padmarajan.No, I cant.It would be as intoxicating as the darkness nested over the jackfruit leaves.It would pull me down into the depths of fantasies.No, I can’t.This is chronic melancholia.Or I should remember those lines of Ezra Pound when I wake up.
'And when I woke,the marrow
Out of my bones ran out ...
You are the friend I dreamt for
not the dream I woke for
And so I put this down for
doubt for doubt'
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