I sit at the window and look at the city lights outside. It's a typical Bangalore evening with a breeze touching me from time to time. It brings coolness and a faint scent that tells me it must have rained in some part of Bangalore. It is one of those days when you sit down to write after a long interval, and you have none of the excuses that you thought were the reasons you haven't been writing. You have a fucking 6th floor window with a vast empty space followed by the whole of E City beyond. I realize that I have perhaps used the F word for the first time in my writing, and I don't know what makes me inherently so averse to using it more often in language. It is a wonderful word after all and I admire it.

People stop writing for many reasons. I think the most prominent of those is that they change. They change and then invoke the old person who wrote in such and such words and the problem is that *that* person does not have an existence any more. And it is ok. It is absolutely alright. It is essential to keep pace with yourself because others obviously can not. Do you sometimes have a feeling so vast and so powerful that you feel it peels off a layer of you? The more that happens, the more you live, the more miserable or crazy you get, the more disappointments and failures you face, the more you crave for what you do not have, the more scared you feel of unknowns - the more you change. Most people would probably fail miserably to describe themselves if asked to. There is nothing more confusing than seeing changing shades of yourself. And yet, vanity allows us to fall in love with this inconsistency, this sham, this mad, mad life.

I sit here and wonder at the lives being lived in the illuminated tall towers I see in the distance. Do they shelter hearts ebbing and breaking in love, dreams bundled and kept away and forgotten in the much cursed software jobs to be cried over on booze nights, hopes of a better city life being circled in smoke in one of the balconies, people making love as if they will never see each other again, people cooking something with love, people looking at pictures of less-travelled destinations and rousing the lost adventurers in them? Or do they just have some people going through lives day after day without much thought, without any crushing or uplifting emotions of any kind? *That* is my biggest fear of disappointment. Does it bother you sometimes, that the world may not be the way you see it? And then do you laugh at the idea the next moment, at the very irony of it, as if there were such a thing as an absolute definition of what the world is. It is anything you like it to be! Any fucking thing. Just think it, and that is the world for you.