Yes, I know. Everyone hates hypocrisy. Still, there seems to be no dearth of hypocrites all around us! That’s just..hypocritical.
What is this radar that can detect insincerity in others but not in ourselves? Makes me worry that I might be a bigot or a hypocrite without knowing it.
India’s rough-and-tough mongrel breed of dog enjoying the sun on a chilly morning. I feel alternately dispirited and amazed.
“It is not our abilities, but our choices that make us who we are.”
–Albus Dumbledore to an almost-twelve-years-old Harry Potter.
Every day of our lives, almost every minute, we are faced with choices. Should I get up right now or can I manage to stay in bed for five more minutes? Wear the red shirt or the green one to work? Eat an apple for breakfast or have cornflakes? Take the umbrella with me or not? Should I ask her out for coffee today or wait for a more opportune moment? Tell mom I hate the blouse she bought me or let her think I love it? Shift to another city and a better pay or stay here with family?
These may range from merely trivial to absolutely life changing, but at the moment of decision-making, they are all equally momentous.
Makes one wonder what would happen if we didn’t have to choose at all. If we’d just know what to do–just one way to do things, and no other. No decision making involved. Do your thing and don’t worry about what to make for dinner tonight.
Would that make us supermen or automatons?
The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.
–Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
How can anybody outgrow the Harry Potter books?!
April is apparently ‘poetry month’, and I am a closet poet. I suppose it’s the sort of event/ celebration/ motivation/ muse that every poet-cum-postaday-blogger aspires for. I, however, have been suffering from a paralyzing case of poet’s block. Unable to pen down a single couplet of free verse, let alone a rhyme.
It is frustrating, it is annoying, it is a case of stubbornness of the subconscious. That is to say, my subconscious refuses to do anything that is required of her, especially at the time she is required to do it. She may complete the job the minute the deadline has passed. Or, in some cases when perhaps she is feeling charitable, about 15 minutes before that. Have you heard the phrase ‘at the eleventh hour’? My high school principal loved to tell us to refrain from leaving things ‘for the eleventh hour’. In my case, or more precisely my subconscious’, it is literally the quarter-to-midnight-th hour. In rare but much appreciated instances, half-past-eleventh hour. I kid you not.
So every day I sit with my laptop on–where else?–the bed, and wait for inspiration to knock. In vain. Because, let’s face it, it’s not April 30th yet!
If human beings don’t keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up. After a few months’ consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don’t keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working.
Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
horror film opening shot (Photo credit: glsƒngrs)
I’ve heard trees whispering, singing, sighing, laughing. In books trees are forever groaning, creaking, twisting; old trees in older forests. But I hadn’t ever heard them do that in real life, until today.
While heralding the coming of a thunderstorm, a tree was creaking. No, it was squeaking, exactly the way huge, old, unoiled, scary doors do in horror movies. Probably it was a very old tree. I think he was telling his grandson how he survived the Great Lightening Storm of ’06 (“that’s 1806 to you, boy!”).
Maybe old trees creak only in thunderstorms?