So I didn't write yesterday, not because I didn't want to, but because when you undertake a journey in a non-ac train compartment, while reading Kundera and thinking of samzidat and wondering why you couldn't manage to take back your usurped window-seat from a lady four times your age, the heart turns a little sore, and the mind doesn't work and well, the fingers don't want to type randomly at a keyboard.
I am home now, not for leisure. But for a type of conference that I should have undertaken two years ago. All of the last two years, I was a lazybum, being all philosophical, all crazy, all indifferent and now, it's fourth year of college, and I'm all scared, all worried, all onmyguard. But it's probably too late, now that I see. People have such gusto in them nowadays. People take flights to get back to their ancient cities, and sigh sigh sigh at the inability of their cities to move forward. Oh so-and-so city has cleaner roads, the airport is attached to the railways with a metro, the metro has revolving doors, they say.
While I, I come back home, run back if you must, blind to its faults, blind to the fact that the city is twentyyears behind civilization, blind to the fact that a flight would take me lesser time. I prefer to read Kundera on a muggy non-ac train compartment; I prefer to think of samzidat when the whole world thinks of free speech in general.
I think I'm a fool that way.