Tuesday, February 11, 2014

A Wilting Flower

Wow, two years! And this place is still alive - well, somewhat. I never thought I'd return to this space, but right now, it feels like the only place for refuge. A safe haven, away from all the chaos and conundrums of life. It has been a while since I stole a few quiet moments to myself. I am supposed to use this time to finish pending work, but somehow, work's far from my mind at this point.

Sometimes, I visit my blog and read and reread my earlier posts, and the comments on them. It seems like another life, really. My thoughts, my aspirations, even my outlook towards everything has changed tremendously. Its just not about me anymore. Its almost as if I'm so lost in the everyday chores, that nothing excites me anymore. If something new or different does come up, it irks me even more, because my 'schedule' gets disrupted. It's like I'm watching the days go by, doing the same thing every day. I don't even realize when the week came to end or how the weekend flew by. I always have a to-do list to cross off. I don't know when I wrote last...I used to love writing poems but if I look inside for inspiration now, all I see is a blank.

What happened to me? I was always the carefree one, always the one living in a dream. It's not like I hate my life, oh no, I have so much to be thankful for. But it feels like something's died inside. It feels empty. I'm living without a purpose, do you know how terrifying that sounds? I need to be inspired, to dream again...to find a new passion, to look forward to each day. I do hope getting back to the blog is a start somehow.

A poem by William Shakespeare is befitting:

The Life Without Passion

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,              
That do not do the thing they most do show,     
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,         
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,          
And husband nature's riches from expense;      
They are the lords and owners of their faces,    
Others, but stewards of their excellence.            
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,  
Though to itself it only live and die;            
But if that flower with base infection meet,        
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;             

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.