Choices

Might there not be a possibility that I was wrong? That I made a wrong choice, in haste?

There are periods of blank thoughts. Just blank. Numbly staring at the book, trying to love the codes, the signs. That’s the reason why I took it in the first place right? Then why so blank?

I want to compete, with one person. I want to build, like that person, like he’s almost my idol. But then why procrastinate? Why  so blank? The pen is ready in my hand, paper waiting to be used, book ready to be read, mind all interested, but why is the passion missing? Now when I see, I was trying to be him. Never me. I should have pleased me.

There is beauty in numbers, in secrets, in codes, in science. I love secrets and trying to decipher it. I love science. I love them all. I really do, then why am I not so alive?

Why is that I find beauty in rain? The sound of it makes me want to create, to paint my thoughts in words. However plain it might be, to me it is beautiful. I’m lost in it. I feel alive. I am writing, I am creating. I’m putting out me. I’m sharing me, in some small way. And I thought I was an introvert.

There is some kind of peace, a sense of belonging when I create. The sounds are not irritating. The thumping, the creaking, the shrieking all are silent, as if they don’t exist. All that exist is the music of colours and me. However simple, but it is the best to me. Because it is me. Different shades of colours, brushes, glitters, glue, papers and me.

I forgot how happy I used to be when I used to capture with the now ancient digital camera. Every sunset was unique; every cloud was beautiful and different, every lightning had different colour and sound, every wave calming, every shell pretty. My dream then and even now is to get a good camera. There were millions of pictures each attached with some memories. There were faces, flowers, insects, butterflies, clouds, sun, sea and its waves, rain and its smell. There was time for them. There was everything: happiness, contentment.

The blanks are filled with colourful pictures, words, shades when around them. There is steady hand, happy creating and putting out a part of me. Every experience had to be painted, thought over, learnt, understood. Every experience was beautiful. There was a want to be shared, to be heard. Just that.

A woman does want everything. But when you put a lock out of her face, and look into her eyes, “everything” was just to be heard and understood. All she wants is you.  She, me, her, all are happy doing what they love the most. Happy in our peace, in our passion. There is this childish heart, who would want you to see her art. Be it anything.

There is desire to read more, learn more, create more, observe more, understand more. Answer the questions. Quench the thirst of curiosity. Philosophy, psychiatry, poem, nature, science, everything.

All it matters is enjoying what you do. Doing what you love. Living in it, passionate about it. Content about it and want to put more to it. Confident about it and believing in it.



Now there is everything. I can do anything, whenever. There is everything, still something is missing.

Might there be a possibility that I chose in haste?

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