Sunday Special: Shadow


Like always, the past is in the room with you. Like a shadow. You can’t not notice it.

It sits next to you, legs crossed, looking sharp. Clever. Shadowy. Dazzling. A tinkle of soft laughter here; a grin pasted there. Feet shuffled, legs re-crossed, hair tossed.

The only other noise is the halted, hesitant conversation. More than some silent seconds tick by.

Then you pick up an old joke, out of the blue, and you collectively mold it into something new. It gains more meaning, more worth. The laughter is new, genuine; the pleasure deep, true.

The past realizes its hold is slightly loose. That it is one trick short. Maybe it’s the laughter, maybe it’s the bright aura of the room; maybe it’s the light at the other end of the tunnel. But you can see through the past now. And you see that you can put it behind you.

Like always, the past will be in the room with you. But only like a shadow.

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No(n)-Catharsis


They say writing is cathartic and they are right.

I have a Word file on my laptop, titled ‘hmmm…’. Yes, not my most creative moment. I password-protected it and voila! my virtual diary was ready for me to start pouring my feelings to.

It worked.

Secure in the knowledge that no one could get in, I just let loose. With the date on top, I’d vent and rant like there was no tomorrow.

But only to a certain extent.

For one, the words wouldn’t come after a while. I’d be sitting on my chair, in front of my laptop, all ready to type it up and let it all out and…blank!

The only thing I’d have on the page would be the day’s date and all my feelings still pent up inside me.

And then, once I went over the few posts that I had written, I felt stupid.

A lot.

All the things that I was worrying about so much sounded really childish. Why was all this stuff bothering me so much? My life should have a bigger purpose than wasting time over why this was not said but this was.

So, I thought I should stop writing for a while until I could write more purposefully. Write down properly all the various ideas that I had other than just typing away furiously and ranting and then feeling stupid about it. It wouldn’t bring any cathartic feeling, so why bother?

But this was years ago. Haven’t written a single of those purposeful words yet.

Ironically, I have also forgotten the password that I set on hmmm… file. I tried a few possible ones but didn’t score. It sits serenely in My Documents, all secure, with there being no way to get at my thoughts of that time.

And now, I have a blog. On which, this is my second post. Which, in turn, is also about writing. No profound thoughts, no bright ideas.

Conclusion: Hmmm, maybe starting a blog was a stupid idea.