Stories once. Cheddar now.

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When I gave up my job, I thought there would be a lot more time to write for myself. However, I was wrong. Most people become freelancers because they don't get enough free time due to their jobs. In truth, that's like getting out of a pool and jumping into the ocean because you're tired of swimming.

I had planned to write my diary a lot more. Post more stuff on my blog. Catch up on my correspondence in a big way. Mainly organize my thoughts meticulously.

That's not to be, though.

Of course, I am writing extensively. I think I write close to 9 hours a day. 9 hours of pure, unadulterated stringing of words. None of them are for myself, though. I'm not complaning. But I think of all those ideas I wanted to pen down. I wanted to write about why I quit my job. Also, my vacation plans to go to Puri, Orissa. About the books I read. The seven different kinds of sunrises I watch between five and seven in the morning. My hot and cold relationship with yoga and meditation. Friends who've fallen off on the wayside like scabs off a wound. Cities. My city. And lives. My life.

But there's no time for any of that now. Sometimes I feel that time is grating my mind like a cheese. Now, all my stories fall away in a pile of soft, pale, yellow curls.

Comments

Geetashree Chatterjee said…
Life is always like that. Isn't it? What you anticipate, does not seem to happen.........
7:15 AM
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