A Whirl...

Why you're not married. Some good advice. Some terrible news.

You're just going to need to get rid of the idea that marriage will make you happy. It won't. Once the initial high wears off, you'll just be you, except with twice as much laundry.

Because ultimately, marriage is not about getting something -- it's about giving it. Strangely, men understand this more than we do. Probably because for them marriage involves sacrificing their most treasured possession -- a free-agent penis -- and for us, it's the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland. 

The bottom line is that marriage is just a long-term opportunity to practice loving someone even when they don't deserve it. Because most of the time, your messy, farting, macaroni-and-cheese eating man will not be doing what you want him to. But as you give him love anyway -- because you have made up your mind to transform yourself into a person who is practicing being kind, deep, virtuous, truthful, giving, and most of all, accepting of your own dear self -- you will find that you will experience the very thing you wanted all along:

Love.

Dear lord! Now I have to not only discard all illusions(about marriage) but also go transform myself! Lot of work. 

The Moon Misses You...

Close your eyes. And listen.



I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day and through
In that small cafe
The park across the way
The children's carrousel
The chestnut trees
The wishing well

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

The Day The Words Weeped...

The wounds that last forever are not the ones caused by physical harm but by words uttered by a loved one.

Must remember henceforth to shut up when angry. 

Twenty Two...

Awww, what a cute song :)



Dil ke jo bhi raaz thay khul rahe hain, what a feeling
Neendon mein jo khwab thay jag rahe hain, what a feeling
Dil ki raahein, dikh rahi hai
Taare jo saare bane hai zameen
Jo bhi tha maanga, mil gaya hai
Jab se tujhpe kiya hai yakeen
Tujhko jab se maanga hai, haathon ko jo thaama hai
Baaton hi baaton mein yeh hua
Baby when you talk to me, manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me, saadi rail gaddi chali chali

Taare sab hai ghul gaye roshni mein, what a feeling
Sarae gum badal gaye hai khushi mein, what a feeling
Khoye thay hum toh, khud hi humse
Ik hi tumse mile hai yahin
Saare hi lamhe, gire thay pal se
Dekho na kal se mile hai yahin
Tujhko jab se maanga hai, haathon ko jo thaama hai
Baaton hi baaton mein yeh hua
Baby when you talk to me, manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me, saadi rail gaddi chali chali

Tum yeh maano ya na maano dekho bekhabar tum thay
Meri manzilon ke raaste hi tum mein hi gum thay
Dil ka kaise mile pata
Jab tum hi thay laapata
Ab humse toh na chhupa jo raaz hai
You'll be maybe
Baby when you talk to me (when you talk to me), manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me (when you walk with me), saadi rail gaddi chali chali
Baby when you talk to me (when you talk to me), manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me (when you walk with me), saadi rail gaddi chali chali

A Pink Rose Bud...

I hope when we become parents, I hope we don't forget that we don't own our kids. We might have given them birth and raised them, but I hope we don't make the same mistake our parents did of deciding their life and dreams for them. I hope the men realise the difference between being the head of the house and a tyrant when they become fathers. I hope they remember that there is no place for ego in a family. I hope the mothers remember to speak up for what's right, even if it means going against the husband. I hope we believe in our kids dreams, and let them have their wings. I hope we don't clip their wings saying we know better. I hope we remember to let them make their own mistakes. And still accept them when they come home defeated and hurt from the battles.

I hope we don't expect our kids to repay with their dreams for the life we gave them. 

*****

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

- Khalil Gibran

Black Gold...

Reference to Chaco War. 

Walking Around...

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,

insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.

I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,

alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

- Pablo Neruda