Why am I writing? And what am I writing..it is a very dicy question. I dont think I write with any particular purpose in mind.. I write to unburden myself.. but I dont get unburdened. I think. I just think a lot and then think some more about it.. The thing I love doing the best is.. singing.. and singing and singing more and more till I drown myself in it. I realize that I do not get joy in the end, I get joy in the process.. The making.. like when I see a small child playing with happiness., its not the finished product, its what joy that smile of happiness on his face is giving him is what matters to me. While I am practicing a song, I love the practice itself, when I just loose myself, I can improvise, I do not have any constraints, I can dream about the meaning.. I can make up new meaning.. everytime changing.. everytime improving trying to make better.. While I am choreographing for myself.. in beat to a music, I love every beat and the anticipation of the new beat, about what my reaction to it will be.. Like everyone else, I am in constant search of a thing which will take me to my heaven and at least give me the assurance that it will keep me there for sometime or if I try hard enough. It is the anticipation that keeps my blood pumping, that keeps that happy anticipating smile on my face.. Like I am hearing music in the loudest volume possible so that I can drown out even my own thoughts, thoughts about everyone else, thoughts that will make me think of things beyond my reach. Now I come to the question of the definition of my reach.. do I really believe that I cannot reach some things? No, I believe that I can reach everything by just trying for it. But its just the various other people who might be affected in ways anticipated and not anticipated by me that keep me at bay from trying my hand at reaching the apparently “unreachable”. Now interestingly all of us have some kind of ego, some kind of self-importance or what is called swabhimaan.. I think that is just a barrier for us to prevent getting hurt by our own actions which are of course invariably linked with that of others. All these philosophical things that I am writing down, I still do not come close to baring my own feelings.. not to anyone.. I think I can only be truly human if I am able to face all my own feelings bravely in the face without shying down from them. If I can answer my each wish about why I wish them, then I can probably calm my ever bubbling blubber of conscience boiling just skin deep. Music , music and more music that’s what my whole life should be about. Sadly, it is not so, my whole life is about hiding from my own eyes so that I can keep up this stupid charade. But I bet that I wont again do anything to help me unravel after all this. I want to go to some remote place where there are the sadhus that we all talk about.. how that man in “The monk who sold his Ferrari” talked about..I want to go there to learn to look deep into myself, I guess to stay within people who would not judge me a single little bit so that I can open myself up and do whatever I want, whatever, and absolutely whatever, I want to learn Ayurveda, about all the magic that is supposed to be contained in the vedas, about all the content that is supposed to be deeply hidden in every molecule of the universe. I just want to be totally and completely happy and knowing about the process of creation, but then I come to the question of whether I will like having that power in my hands. Its all very well dreaming about how I will love to make beautiful things out of clay, if only I could, but what when the clay containers and clay statues themselves are free to judge whether they are happy in their present state or not.. they are free to judge whether they like the emotions that have been imparted to them. That just means that they are free to judge whether they like their maker., and do not think that I will like to be judged then. No, I would not. Oh Music, music , my dearest music, I am crying out to you in desperation, why are you beyond my reach, u seem to be the solution of all my wishes, to be lost so that I cannot recognize myself, cannot recognize my own emotions, cannot feel anything besides every tone, every emotion in that melody, in the waves that come of my own hands and tongues are the ones which touch me and speak to me in their every touch.. How can there be sadness over trifles which go so deep that you feel you would not be cured of them but the very next moment maybe after a few hours, you will inevitably be cured of whatever you were feeling… I desperately want to sleep but why am I sitting in this unused classroom trying to get more of life, be it only listening to music or the incessant thunderstorms.. Oh the storms, the storms, take me away with you make me a tree, a leaf that will listen to your every wish every mood, and carry me far far away to a place where I can call my heart and examine it at will and not feel any assessment of the same. Take me away to a place where all my wishes can speak to me and I can conjure up an imagination of my will to see me living in them….Why do people always try to shake us out of our fancies, why do they want to make us live in the real world.. because I like my make believe much more than that.