When it comes to quiescent habits, I am an owl. When darkness descends, when pin drop silence prevails, when the lull is occasionally broken by a pack of dogs' brouhaha and when the moon's silvery streak trickles down making the turf flash and shimmer, my world gains cognizance. Since the balanced and the lucid, who make up the rest of the world, eye these hours as an interlude befitting slumber, I fail to enlist a partaker or score an audience. And that leaves me in a lurch.
So I write. I write pages and pages of anything and everything that this mind can recall. Most things committed to a memory that is by no means poor, get jotted down. Many such write-ups die an early death because of the extent of trite that they hold. A few that pass muster of self-evaluation help me restore my sense of balance. Those reflections deriving a coherent form as a post or a card or an email emulate an audience. Out of these, the formal ones and the personal ones go out as cards and emails. The rest of the casual ones that get on to this blog are for a select few; family and a few friends whom I write for. And from the scattering ones that do not see the light of the day, I glean an unplaced sense of comfort of the tangible, as if I earned myself a confidante in my nocturnal microcosm. Cheers!!
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