Nov 22, 2009
I miss home.
And when I say home..
I really mean MOM and DAD.
Gave everything for me .
Thought of sending money perennially.
Reckoning of money n assets r not going to give any happiness for them.
It may be impossible to repay everything.
Now, all they have is each other.
With DAD being so prayerful
and MOM always smiling and shooting her Doubts..
Somehow gives me the assurance that they'll be super okay.
But They are not in need of any financial assistance.
but they want me to sit beside them J
On 13th that was the first time in my adult life I broke into tears thinking abt my 19th month in Paris
MISSING U DAD
Tears can cleanse my eyes but not my thoughts, they are much clear now.
I am not a POET but a PUPPET of Destiny
There is again, a torrent of thoughts in my mind. Am I a writer? What am I writing? Does it make any sense at all or does it make too much sense? Why do I write? Do I want people to read and tell me it's good or do I hope, but in vain, that my thoughts, once out there, will not surface again to haunt and nag?
When your writing is taken in the opposite sense of what you wanted it to be, doesn't that make you a not-so-good writer? No, I do not need validation here. I do not need anyone telling me whether I am good or bad. These are thoughts aloud.
I do not mean to hurt, I don't think most people in the world intend to hurt others at all. But yet I seem to, by words, spoken, written. Would it be that I am too forthright? Or maybe, like a mother whose child can never do a wrong, I am blind when I write. Maybe I cannot see what you might when you read it. Maybe that is what hurts.
As a writer, as a human being, I feel. And I used to write here because I wanted you to know how I feel . Ain’t I entitled to a little pleasure …