Valentine's day! In J's room, this morning. But I don't believe in the concept. As if this is the pinnacle of all love. I read somewhere, about a million cards are exchanged on this particular day. (One doesn't count the ones that are rejected? Or the ones that are too scared to be rejected? What about the ones that are sent with love and torn with hatred and disgust?) What a waste of paper, time and effort! And those pseudo-poems written in them - heart-wrenching!
This is a beautiful morning! And I'm happy. At ease with the occasional breeze that rustles the leaves; this blue freshness. The clear sunlight casts a net of shadows at the windowsill and the crow caws, at regular intervals, in longing. The flutter of pigeon wings and a great bird expands its black feathers as it flies across the skies.
And yet I am aware, in this happiness, that all this is transient. (The sound of a helicopter disturbs the sanctity of this morning.) I ask, 'This feeling, is it becoming rarer and rarer or am I just stepping into it?' I cannot be certain. Let me just be for now.
It is almost noon; the sun is almost over-head. I walked out of J's room and into the university gardens. I'm sitting here, alone, and a thousand flowers show their coloured faces to the sun. I do not know their names. I would like to.
Some people walk nearby, conversing loudly. Annoying humans!
The bees are feasting in this sweet abundance, and drunk with nectar, they seem to stagger in their flights. A breeze passes. An azure delight. The flowers are tremulous in the wind.
A worm walks with a hundred feet. It goes around in circles. What is it thinking? At least, it seems troubled, looking there and here, as if it lost something, or it can't find its way to wherever it has to go. It has some appointment to keep. If it had hands, I am certain, it would give its head occasional scratches. But nevertheless, it is insignificant. After all, who writes about a worm? Unless its for some bio project.
This is a nice place. I should come here more often - it seems to have a cleansing quality. I don't know what I mean. Perhaps, its calming. And yet I am slightly uncomfortable with this neat arrangement. Everything seems too controlled; they're afraid to take too much liberty, lest some flower raising its head at an unusual angle or from somewhere it is not supposed to be, should be beheaded.
Am I like those bees haunting innocent flowers, storing nectar in the depths of their mouths for future consumption? Am I like them as I walk here and sit there, collecting sentences, purloining words from flowers, trees, the flutter of wings, from shadow and smoke, from this clear morning?
What for?
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