For Brinda*, who wants more.
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The recent inactivity has been due to a (regular) confluence of many events and thoughts.

Of observing the ever-increasing shrillness of the media, where advertisements pass for articles, and facts are but dead flowers to be thrown on the compost heap. Of reading books which focus more on what others have said before, than on anything they might have to proclaim themselves. Of questions that are the same, millennia after they were first asked. And whose answers are as myriad as they are unhelpful.

Of a worldscape so complex and swift that understanding and sanity are nothing but little islands. Of watching people deepening the grooves of the same paths that those before them have covered before, and not realising how cliched it all is.

Of dealing with language and words, and the inevitable wonder and frustration of doing so. Of how all we have left are trivial sub-plots of stories ancient - and how we excite ourselves when someone details them in a manner that is but nuanced from those before.

Of how all we do is react, and all we've ever done is react, and how 'creation' is such a misunderstood and misused word.

Of how nothing is new anymore, if it ever was; and how this itself is not new now.

Of dreaming, yet again, of a world that exists beyond silence.


* I'd point you to her blog, but she doesn't have one. Don't ask me.