The
haste is killing all the beauty of life. We are wading through life barely
living, huffing and puffing barely catching our breath. We are barely holding
on to the breath, trying to hang on to a tired heart and a brain pummeled to
pulp by pounding sense of constant urgency. The butterflies, the lovely
butterflies which yearn to escape to the free, virgin airs of solitary mountain,
struggle, caged in a rigid mind.
The time is running out is a constant theme which pervades all my being. I read and write as if racing against the time which is fast running me out. I read with more of an urgency of a dying man than with the living curiosity of a new-born child (latter I so much long to have). We listen to music, on the commute, not to exceed even for a moment beyond the pre-assigned time. When was the last that we fit in our day’s work into art which spread across the day, luxurious, broad and glorious?It is always the other way round, and we fit in art into the cracks. Art, in all its …
The time is running out is a constant theme which pervades all my being. I read and write as if racing against the time which is fast running me out. I read with more of an urgency of a dying man than with the living curiosity of a new-born child (latter I so much long to have). We listen to music, on the commute, not to exceed even for a moment beyond the pre-assigned time. When was the last that we fit in our day’s work into art which spread across the day, luxurious, broad and glorious?It is always the other way round, and we fit in art into the cracks. Art, in all its …