sleepless in Chennai

I feel myself counting down the days every week.. Today is Tuesday. This time I’m counting down to the scriptwriting workshop I’m attending over the weekend. But why am I counting down.. is my normal day-to-day life so painful? No, maybe not; maybe I’m just entrenched in the horror that has become the Indian media today. Hyping up stories which have no relevance just because people love watching crap, running behind mundane incidents because they could be linked to something more important.. so on and so forth. The life of a journalist definitely isn’t as glamorous as it appears.

Yesterday while waiting outside the Chief Minister’s house while a crucial meeting was on inside, I found myself thinking about my writing exercise for the scriptwriting workshop. And I realised, I may never be happy till I can write for a living.. This whole faff of working in the media will eventually get to me (erm, you may say it already has) and then what? With elections around the corner, I’ve not had time to write in the last two weeks. Not even my weekly Sunday Scribbling post. (gasp. Yes, I know. The horror of it.) And that’s only going to get worse over the next 11 weeks or so. I guess I’ll just have to manage my time a little better or stop whining entirely. (catch me doing that :D)

Moving on.. I was reading some Pablo Neruda and e e cummings poems a few days back. And I wish I could write like that. I'm sure most girls would love to have a lover write to them like that. This is one of the poems I came across last week..

somewhere i have never travelled – e e cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

On that note I shall sigh and return to chasing stories. Happy March, all.