No..we are not! Yes..we are..

I am walking in the city. The kind of aimless walking which does not lead anywhere and yet is soothing to the soul. It has just rained. The sky is still dark as if it is still giving the city streets a last look to see if they are wet enough.

The pavement is lined with shops. They sell everything. Clothes, jewellery, coffee, shoes...you name it and there would be some shop closeby that would give you something interesting to look at and entice you to spend.

The people breeze in and out of the shops. For some, the hunt is still on. For others, it is over. They got what they needed... for the time being. I look at them but they dont look at me. They notice me just enough to ensure that they dont bump into me as they are walking towards me. There is no eye contact.

There are at least a thousand people on the streets but they could all be walking in an empty city. If I screamed aloud, at least a hundred would hear it clearly. It is easier to hear the swish of the traffic on the wet roads than to hear the words they murmur to each other. Never to the strangers.

Where am I? Dont these people feel the way I do? Do they have the same struggles, the same issues, the same dilemmas? Do they feel happy the way I do when I meet someone I love? Do they also have the same rush of blood when someone pushes them in the crowd. Of course, they do. But then, why dont they say something aloud. Why be so quiet?

I am not in India. I am in Singapore. And I keep wondering if they are the same like us or they are not...

The beautiful thing that writing is...

There are times I am compelled to write. I just get pulled into a chair and my fingers start typing. Often, I have struggled to come up with something rich and insightful, something so honest that its nakedness is hard hitting. But all that comes up is regurled bits of conversations, phrases, books...

I want that energy, that intensity to lead to something profound, something magical. I try hard to wrap my mind around what i am feeling. I want some answers and I want writing to throw them up so that I can catch them and see where they came from and what do they tell about me. It is a lovely game. But what if I often missed something else when doing this catch and tell.

Let me explain.

When I let go of this desire to find something awesome, I am much more at peace. If I am sad, my eyes begin to water as I write, the outside noises fade away and the heart warms up as if it is in tune with something larger and deeper. If I am happy, my hands become a living embodiment of an energetic dance. Sometimes, the energy is too much to stay put.

There is no purpose in writing, except to write. Can I stay with that? Can I just relish that writing is just like the hands that massage my soul. It is a path I take to find my lost rhythm. It needs no one but an honest me...and sometimes a cup of coffee. Peace comes cheap. Believe me, I know.