i wake up in the morning and there is nothing on the agenda. in fact, there isn’t even an agenda. the way i feel these days seem hauntingly reminiscent of how i felt during army days, albeit in a different setting. no cookhouse aunties serving breakfast with that dollop of irritation, only my mother with the plates and the mugs. and this freedom – the blissful difference between being entrenched in aimlessness and feeling elated, carefree.
after eating, i retreat into the world of imaginings, though this time the imaginings of others. a world where i live vicariously through protagonists and antagonists, mapping their rise and fall, submerged in their reality. it is funny how alike books and dreams are – for i am only an observer, powerless to shape the unraveling of events. it is no surprise few actually pick up the pencil and attempt to fashion something tactile from the swirling masses of ideas in the head. the world of the imagination is vast and wild, rife with adventure at the turn of every corner. it is so bewildering an expanse that many (the proverbial ‘josiah bounderbys’ of the world) choose to not even recognise its existence. it is a dynamic entity with a life of its own. it is real, and our tribute to it? bestowing upon it the title of ‘fiction’.
it is time for lunch, or is it time for dinner?
for more on my thoughts, click here.