It's an interesting world we are in, even the one yours truly thinks he's in. For, he has the audacity not to write for months on end, and then another round of audacity… to write again. For this, is an interesting world. A world where we commit (often sins), cry foul, then recommit and yet find the time to challenge our own wits and then we confess – mostly to ourselves – for not doing what we ought to, or overdoing the same.
And yours truly wants to confess, right here, right now. Now you must understand that yours truly has hardly ever confessed – except for once when he confessed to her under the influence of that holy fluid, which abruptly brought out her confession, with a brilliant move of her left and deft hand which collided with yours truly's cheeks, that she'd rather take a jump out of Dharahara, sans parachute, than ever see him again. Having a background that includes such adventures, yours truly also fears other rounds of such, hence a safer way of cyber confessing.
The confession is for not writing. For a period that almost challenges the gestation period of fellow humans, yours truly was out of scene. And yet he confesses that he was not doing so, for gestation purposes, for that mechanism has not been built into him. Nor had he lack of time, which seem the enemy of people with ideas. Neither was he carrying out a work that he'd be completely lost into, for he tends to get lost just like that, in the territory that is unfamiliar to him, including thoughts.
Yours truly was simply ideologically challenged. For he did not even dare try to type on the keyboards of this very machine, which helps one put ideas into words. He had just lost the capacity, if he had any, to carry out such an arduous and intellectual task. Yours truly kept on remaining amazed, as so many things kept happening around him, and he just appeared to watch, mutely, all the actors on the stage as they mimicked doing something worthwhile. For, yours truly was in love with the motion with which everything was going around, for so long, and yet fruitlessly the world revolved around the sun. Amazed, dazed and perplexed.
But now he realizes that communication is his field, no matter how bad he is in it. For, he is also supposed to be a journalist, a person supposed to having a sense of what is going on and a sense of communicating it to others. And he also would like to confess that he'd continue doing so, with pauses and breaks in between, of communicating.
For he's learnt a lesson now…
When we die and reach heaven (he'd miss some of you, though), there will be no need for a doctor, for we'd enjoy perfect health there. Nor would we need the advice of lawyers, for, in heaven, there would be no disputes to settle. There will be no business in heaven, so they won't be needed there too. But the journalist would be an important man (and sometimes, also women). For, in heaven, as on earth, we will all want to know what the other fellow is doing. We'd still love the gossips, the masala in others' life and our own take on that.
Yours truly, now, feels a blessed man… And he shall continue to do so…
