Not those two, please, nooooooooo...

Now what can I say about this? Sheesh!

And yes, Gault?

Another way to send me to an early grave.

Sometimes, the toughest thing to do...

...is to pick yourself off the track, dust your shirt, spit the blood that's rinsing around in your mouth and get back into the fight, knowing it doesn't matter if you lose, just that you have to keep throwing the punches.

...is to wake up in the morning, see sunlight streaming into the room through the windows, kicking you awake, the leaves all sprightly and green and wet with dew, and realise that one day, you will not be here to experience all this beauty -- and that really breaks the heart.

...is to understand that when you are agnostic, you can't even pray for a friend or a loved one, despite desperately wanting them to tide over troubled times.

...is to face the fact that you are incompetent at doing certain things, especially asking for help.

...is to accept that your idea does indeed have a flaw.

...is to learn that an argument is not about winning, but about learning to see from the other's perspective.

...is to come to terms with the feeling that your family and friends might not be as important to you as you want them to be, and that sooner or later, you will have to cut free.

...is to see the road stretch away in front of your eyes, leading to the place where you wanted to go, and sigh, and walk away, postponing the trip for later.

...is to realize that the reason behind being awake at 2 in the night with a bitter-as-black-coffee mood, is loneliness.

...is to patiently read through old greeting cards, and laugh at the juvenile writing inside, and then put them back carefully in the cup-board, saving them up for the next bout of nostalgia.

...is saying sorry despite not wanting to, despite having good reason not to say so, and learning that it makes no difference at all to the person you are supposed to have hurt.

...is to keep your life on track on the outside, while your thoughts and your emotions are taking you for a ride on the inside.

...is to make sense of your own writing.

Anniversary

So, here I am, into my second year of blogging!

And to commemorate a year of inconsistent, sporadic and whimsical writing, here's a favourite:

Keeping Quiet

And now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about,
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us,
as when everything seems dead in winter
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve,
and you keep quiet and I will go.

-- Pablo Neruda (Translated from the original in Spanish by Alastair Reid)

Roads not taken *

there are certain streets
i choose not to walk by.
there are moments when
i forget i have to cry.

these twisting roads, these paths they yield,
i know only too well.
my memory fails, my heart does not feel,
why, i cannot quite tell.

the shadows here hide
ghosts from yesterday.
should i stop? take a side?
or should i just walk away?

the walls and the corners speak
of stories i can't silence.
the pretense leaves me weak,
the guilt stains my innocence.

i know where every right
will lead, and where, every left.
where logic, with all its might,
will succeed, leaving emotion in debt.

so, do i paint the rainbow
with the colour from my bleeding hands?
or, knowing what i know,
leave these trails for better lands?

these are streets
i cannot walk by.
these are times
when i will not cry.

* - The title is inspired by Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. With all due apologies to the poet.