Words are somuch better in the head, I say. The moment they reach the throat, they become polluted, adulterated, and poisoned even. In the head, words are like pictures, photographs. Almost perfect and flawless. The throat is such a faulty organ. Words out of the throat can never be taken back. Words in the head, stay in the head. Like good children - almost good children? Sneaking out into forbidden territory when noone's looking but coming right back before their parents turn to spy. Perhaps, this is the reason why writing can never do justice to thinking, philosophizing?
Writing is even more difficult when there isn't a window, when there isn't a bright, bright (and sometimes, a cloudy) sky to stare at. Writing is difficult when the whole concept of lawlogic is breathing down your neck all the time. Shouldn't I stop writing? Because thinking, creating things in the head and then destroying them is far easier than putting words side-by-side, blowing sense into them and then pressing backspace (for my words seldom make sense!).
Impossible, writing is when there is always a sense of exigency, and things you do are almost a blur. First class is sometimes spent in a daze, but mostly are spent in bed dreaming that I'm spending them in the well-lighted (and hence, extremely mundane) classroom in a daze. Second class, DT's, is a stupefaction also. How can a thickbook of statutes be perception? Perception is fragile, like the ideas in the head. One puff, and the things in the head have dissolved somewhere, shrouded, perhaps, from humdrum, insipid reality. See, how you ruin the train of thoughts? Putting them all in order, and numbering them and then, publishing them in a Taxmann hardbound. And then, considering them a part of some twisted jurisprudential (modern? postmodern?) idea of a corporate person. Second classes are also used to fall in love with obsessive-compulsiveness, and observing how a nose can become a mouth, and how words can be discipline.
Short-breaks. Sometimes fifteen whole minutes, sometimes not. They are spent sleeping. Giving bhao. Observations. Munching on biscuits when breakfast has been missed. The stuff that ideal short-breaks are made of. Third class is not my favourite class either. An hour dedicated to staring at the obviously queer classmates, or reading Rushdie, or planning how to rule the world when my time comes (Oh, it shall!). Family law, before lunch, for me is generally counting backwards or looking forward.
After lunch classes are more often than not bunked carelessly. When attended, they are subjected to the scrutiny of the clan I live among. How their voices have an unbearable staccato, or how their diction changes the release from (police/judicial) custody into the Bos taurus! Evenings are spent either in acute anxiety or in perpetual laughter or in suspended animation.
Days become nights, nights become day. Then, one day suddenly - the classes are shuffled.