"It's Not Every Day A Fat Cat Brings You Flowers...." wrote A M Homes....
I wondered as I perused her writings on the net...the consequence of a freak search on Brad Pitt...Why hadn't I heard of her...me who prides myself for knowing every single writer who had strayed into literature...and I had not read her...leave alone know her...I had sinned...and now I had to undergo penance....
The dreams were scary....cats filled every little clean spot on my floor, on my curtains and furniture...I was petrified to say the least...and I didn't in any sense want to imitate Halle Berry....but I was beginning to crouch like I shouldn't...and my feline senses were buzzing....was that a plate of fish fry....passing me by on the floor below? mmmmm..........YIKES!!!!!!!! I was awake...Me, this puritanical brahmin iyer, dreaming of fresh fried fish? my grandmom would churn in her grave and order a bath with cow dung!
I could not afford to get fishy here...and that meant I could not sleep...for Halle Berry was now the woman of my dreams....and I liked jumping off rooftops in search for a nice stance.....hell Homes had corrupted me...
but I like tigers....majestic, unafraid, royal.....no I did not want to spend a night in the wilderness frightened that I might wake up and find myself staring into those shining slits of gold....or be worried sick that I might be grabbed by my leg and dragged along as my hair gathered leaves and sand and I screamed myself hoarse into the dark skies with nothing but an owl to respond...
but what is the purpose of what I am writing...I am lost here....
ah I wanted to do penance...but homes was away and couldn't care a damn whether I knew her or not, or I read her or not, while the rest of the world was anyways celebrating her success and her writing....
so then why am I bothering? to make up enough dough to fill this space...or pretend that I was clued into the major movements of the literary world? ah the question I am trying to answer even as I am typing this nonsense...
to be precise...Its just me trying to understand if with every passing month I am losing my touch with the language and the art of stringing together some meaningful words.....
can I continue with writing even if I woke up from a coma that lasted five years....maybe not...my fingers would be dead and sore....but I could complete a sentence in my head and make myself heard if not read....
so then should I waste time and energy....should I write?
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