Pricking heat all over my body. The tshirt clings to my back, as I wipe sweat off my forehead and look ahead. The heat blurs my vision. Eleven guys standing with their eyes on me, more attention from the dressing rooom focussed on my every move. I take guard, pausing momentarily to shake the stiffness out of my arms, and tap my bat down on the muddy concrete strip ever so gently, and look ahead, in apt attention. Twenty minutes to play out, and the test match will be drawn.
Sledging, in its most rudimentary and detestable form, going on in full swing. But the proponents of that too, from all the depths of the slip cordon, pause as the bowler thunders in. Tennis ball whizzes past me. I let it be. No pain, no gain. The ball is taken adroitly by the keeper, and as if on cue, all the close in fielders erupt in verbal volleys of taunts, and snide remarks.
And on the match trundles. Last wicket to get for them. Ten more minutes to go for us. A slow leg spinner bowling. As the minutes have passed, the sledging and banter have gone down, the field has spread, and the pressure has eased off. I play one ball deftly, dodge the other, leave the third undisturbed, and pad off the fourth and fifth ones. Suddenly they have upped the tempo, and the verbal barrages are back. The temptation to whack one over their heads is too much. I beg the sane part of me for permission to do the same.
Last ball of the over. Looping slow ball, slow even by spinners' standards. Screw everything else. In that split second, I make up my mind to go for it. Advancing down the track, I hit it firmly. Oh...but was I a tad too early on the shot? And my worst fears are confirmed, I realize in the eternity between my hitting the shot, and the sound of the hit reaching my ears. The ball travels the distance, but lacks that extra punch to carry it past. And in that instant I know I am doomed. The fielder pouches it. And the fielders go beserk. I kick the gravel in anger, and swear in utter disbelief at my own naivete.
Why did I go for it? I ask myself a million times on the way back to the dressing room. Needless to say, we lost the match.
Moral of the story: Temperament is what greatness is made of.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sunday, December 23, 2007
My mom and the dream
And the night sky stared at me in the face, as I stood on the edge of the terrace parapet. Blustering night winds blew my hair back (they seemed strangely longer and a lot wavier now) and I struggled to balance myself. The grisly green snake with the head of a child continued to talk to me in its squeaky voice. "Give me the ring" it hissed. "No!!!"I heard myself shout over the noises of the brewing storm. It slithered closer, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. I gripped the ring tighter. It was almost touching my toes now, and a great big tongue of lightning flashed across the skies. The snake opened it's fangs and hissed. In the eerie white lightning, I saw the ring wedged firmly between its fangs. "What the...I had the ring...I had it...give it back to me...it's my good luck charm.." I bent down to grab the snake by the throat and rattle the life out of it, when thunder broke out and a furious gust of wind blew me off balance. I fell off the parapet. The snake (back with the head of a child again) thrust it's head over the parapet and laughed at me. Weird childish eyes and infant teeth. I shivered in dread as I fell. And fell. And fell.
And woke up in a cold sweat. A dream.I realized I was wet with sweat. Shrugging off the thick blanket, (whatever happened to the winter cold, God himself knows)I jabbed at the talking clock byt the bedstand. "The time is 2.23 a.m. Have a nice day" the metallic voice crooned in a sing song tone. Like it cared about my day. I clutched my face in my hands. The green snake kept coming back to mind. Ugh. What a nightmare. I tossed and turned in bed for a few minutes and realized I couldn't sleep alone in the hall anymore.
I tiptoed over to my parents' bedroom. They were sound asleep on their newly furnished bed. The room, at that stressed out moment, appeared to me the picture of protective calm and serenity. Only my dad's snores punctuated the tranquility, but that too was something my mom had grown immune to over the years. I suddenly felt the need to sleep with them. "Ma, please can I squeeze in?"
She looked startled for a moment. "Of course Bharat", she said and moved to make room. I lay down on the edge of the bed beside mom. She moved further in. My dad mumbled something about my mom being too fat for the bed these days. "Shut up, Bharat has come here". My dad snored in reply. Mom shrugged and closed her eyes. I shut my eyes and realized no green snake could harm me now. She put an arm around my shoulders. I snuggled in further. "Bad dream?" She asked, eyes still closed, and a half smile playing on her lips. "Yes...I was on the terrace and a green snake with a child's "..."Hssshhh...just sleep now. We'll talk about this in the morning." I nodded and stopped my frantic narration. The scent of my mom's hair wafted in my nostrils. I felt at peace with the world. I planted my mom a light kiss on the nose. She wriggled a bit. I snickered and closed my eyes again.
And she drifted off to sleep. Taking her son with her. Away from snakes and other sordid beings. So what if I'm 20 years old now. I guess you can never be too old for running to mom after a bad dream.
And woke up in a cold sweat. A dream.I realized I was wet with sweat. Shrugging off the thick blanket, (whatever happened to the winter cold, God himself knows)I jabbed at the talking clock byt the bedstand. "The time is 2.23 a.m. Have a nice day" the metallic voice crooned in a sing song tone. Like it cared about my day. I clutched my face in my hands. The green snake kept coming back to mind. Ugh. What a nightmare. I tossed and turned in bed for a few minutes and realized I couldn't sleep alone in the hall anymore.
I tiptoed over to my parents' bedroom. They were sound asleep on their newly furnished bed. The room, at that stressed out moment, appeared to me the picture of protective calm and serenity. Only my dad's snores punctuated the tranquility, but that too was something my mom had grown immune to over the years. I suddenly felt the need to sleep with them. "Ma, please can I squeeze in?"
She looked startled for a moment. "Of course Bharat", she said and moved to make room. I lay down on the edge of the bed beside mom. She moved further in. My dad mumbled something about my mom being too fat for the bed these days. "Shut up, Bharat has come here". My dad snored in reply. Mom shrugged and closed her eyes. I shut my eyes and realized no green snake could harm me now. She put an arm around my shoulders. I snuggled in further. "Bad dream?" She asked, eyes still closed, and a half smile playing on her lips. "Yes...I was on the terrace and a green snake with a child's "..."Hssshhh...just sleep now. We'll talk about this in the morning." I nodded and stopped my frantic narration. The scent of my mom's hair wafted in my nostrils. I felt at peace with the world. I planted my mom a light kiss on the nose. She wriggled a bit. I snickered and closed my eyes again.
And she drifted off to sleep. Taking her son with her. Away from snakes and other sordid beings. So what if I'm 20 years old now. I guess you can never be too old for running to mom after a bad dream.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Me and my two lives
Paulo Coelho had, in one of his books, explained how people lead two lives. I was thinking about this last night, and it struck me that its remarkably true for most of us.
I lead two lives too.
There is one life in which I am forced to do all that I do. In this duty bound life, I am made to study subjects that don't intrigue me, work for a cause that I don't believe in, be with people whom I don't really identify with, and speak on things that I am not sure of myself. I smile for photographs well knowing that it's a fake smile I'm putting on. I sit and talk with people on topics like the weather, and politics, neither of which interest me. I try hard to maintain an image in society, for what, I really do not know. I make promises and say things that I'm sure I won't be able to keep. In the process, I end up lying, often to my parents, and to the ones who love me the most. I back off from decisions at times, fearing the repercussions. At times I quit the fight when I'm needed the most, saying its not really my battle, when the truth is that I am afraid. I ignore my conscience, and I hate myself for doing so. On a few lonely nights, all my wrongs keep me awake, and I feel like the biggest sinner on earth. I end up hating myself on such ocassions, and I feel I'm unworthy of all that I have been blessed with.
Such is this life.
But there is another life I live too. One in which I meet people who think on my wavelengths, and feel a special connection with them, knowing that they are much closer to me than the world will ever know. I find love in the most little and trivial things, and the beauty of the world is revealed to me. I believe in an unending and undying love, and I know how necessary that is to be happy. At times, I realize that there are certain dreams I cherish, no matter how deep within they are, and I vow to unfalteringly pursue them. I discover my soul accidentally at times, when I am writing, or indulging in any other passionate work, and on this chance meeting, I smile unassumingly, only to realize that this is the most genuine of all smiles. I stumble upon joy while looking at a chilly winter sunrise, and suddenly God reveals himself to me. I cry at times when I hear about soldiers dying, and I write about them to glorify their bravery. Sometimes, just sometimes, the path I seek reveals itself to me, only momentarily, and then it's gone, but it leaves me wise enough to know that a moment's revelation is what inspires a lifetime. I wake up in the middle of the night ocassionally, and thinking about life ,feel as if I'm the most blessed man on earth. And that's when I realize that there's no challenge big enough for a man who lives this life.
These are my two lives. I don't know if both will intertwine one day, or will continue to be as disparate. But what I do know is that I am neither good nor bad. I am merely human, trying to find the path that will take me where I wish to go.
Friday, November 23, 2007
King of his universe
He was the quintessential artist. Stubble on his chin, gold rimmed spectacles hardly doing anything to hide the sadness in his eyes, a flowing white shirt, inexpensive blue trousers (the kind that people rarely wear these days), and brown shoes that didn't match at all with the rest of his outfit. A bulging folder, no doubt full of his works, and pencils of various colors jutting out of his shirt pocket completed the rest of his getup.
His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.
I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.
That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.
Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.
The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.
Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.
I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.
His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.
I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.
That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.
Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.
The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.
Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.
I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
New ones from Dubai (short story)
The cheap motel room in central Dubai was abuzz with activity that night. Bright lights adorned the entire setup, a few technicians ran around, a fat sweaty middle aged man with a balding scalp was shouting out orders to all and sundry. Wasim strutted into the room wearing only a long towel. With his rippling muscles, hairless chest and disconcerting smile, there was no mistaking him for what he was. "How much time boss?" he lazily drawled. "Just about done, just about done" the fat man repeated for what was like the fourth time in the night.
And in the middle of it all, sat Safina. Draped in only a bathrobe, she sat on a cheap couch beside the bed. Her eyes were closed. After getting fired from her job as a waitress a few days ago for messing up a big order, life had become very difficult for her. She'd managed to save some money, but all that seemed like a joke now considering she didn't even have a job. She thought about her life back home in India when her parents were alive. How carefree the days were back then. She shivered when she thought about the days ahead. Finding a job again, saving for her brother's college admission. At 18, Ali was at a hostel in Mumbai. She desperately needed money to get him into a college of his choice. He wasn't a bright student, but she had to do it somehow. For her parents' sake atleast. I'll do it somehow, she thought. Three years of battling it out in Dubai had taught her a lot of things. But nothing had prepared her for this.
She was shaken out of her reverie by the fat guy. "Come on girl, you can't keep the set waiting for too long. You've had your rest. Now it's showtime. Boys, are we ready?" She stood up uncertainly. Slivers of pain shot through her, and she grimaced. Just for tonight, she told herself. Wasim was beside her now, leeringly stroking her hair. Taking a deep breath, she prayed to God to forgive her for this sin. For Ali's sake. For Ali's sake. Once he graduates and takes up a proper job, all this will seem like a bad dream. I'll go back to my India, and never ever see the faces of these bastards again. God, please let this not hurt too much. "Action!" cried the fat guy. Swiftly, Wasim jerked off her bathrobe, and pushed her on to the bed. It was quite a while before he cried "cut!".
Back in Mumbai, it was raining at night. Ali shook the rain out of his hair as he reached his friend's house in Bandra. "Man, this rain.." he muttered, as he plopped down on the couch. Four of his friends were there. Cigarette smoke hung about the place. Alcohol was pungent in the air. "Say Ali, how're you going to tell your sister that you got debarred for low attendance? I mean...you'll be pushed back a year now right? And won't this affect your college programmes?"
Ali shrugged. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her. Anyway, I don't even have to tell her that. She'll start crying in no time." Saying thus, he took a puff of the cigarette. "Hey what about the porn?" Subash enquired. "Patience my man", Ali said..." I've told Husain to look out for it. He's got some new ones from Dubai it seems".
And in the middle of it all, sat Safina. Draped in only a bathrobe, she sat on a cheap couch beside the bed. Her eyes were closed. After getting fired from her job as a waitress a few days ago for messing up a big order, life had become very difficult for her. She'd managed to save some money, but all that seemed like a joke now considering she didn't even have a job. She thought about her life back home in India when her parents were alive. How carefree the days were back then. She shivered when she thought about the days ahead. Finding a job again, saving for her brother's college admission. At 18, Ali was at a hostel in Mumbai. She desperately needed money to get him into a college of his choice. He wasn't a bright student, but she had to do it somehow. For her parents' sake atleast. I'll do it somehow, she thought. Three years of battling it out in Dubai had taught her a lot of things. But nothing had prepared her for this.
She was shaken out of her reverie by the fat guy. "Come on girl, you can't keep the set waiting for too long. You've had your rest. Now it's showtime. Boys, are we ready?" She stood up uncertainly. Slivers of pain shot through her, and she grimaced. Just for tonight, she told herself. Wasim was beside her now, leeringly stroking her hair. Taking a deep breath, she prayed to God to forgive her for this sin. For Ali's sake. For Ali's sake. Once he graduates and takes up a proper job, all this will seem like a bad dream. I'll go back to my India, and never ever see the faces of these bastards again. God, please let this not hurt too much. "Action!" cried the fat guy. Swiftly, Wasim jerked off her bathrobe, and pushed her on to the bed. It was quite a while before he cried "cut!".
Back in Mumbai, it was raining at night. Ali shook the rain out of his hair as he reached his friend's house in Bandra. "Man, this rain.." he muttered, as he plopped down on the couch. Four of his friends were there. Cigarette smoke hung about the place. Alcohol was pungent in the air. "Say Ali, how're you going to tell your sister that you got debarred for low attendance? I mean...you'll be pushed back a year now right? And won't this affect your college programmes?"
Ali shrugged. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her. Anyway, I don't even have to tell her that. She'll start crying in no time." Saying thus, he took a puff of the cigarette. "Hey what about the porn?" Subash enquired. "Patience my man", Ali said..." I've told Husain to look out for it. He's got some new ones from Dubai it seems".
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The real India
So I read in a newspaper today that a man in a remote district of Tamil Nadu married a bitch yesterday. Big deal, you must be thinking. A lot of people do that right? Well think again. He married a real four legged bitch. And the article goes on to say what a grand wedding it was, and all his village was present at the ceremony it seems, complete with a grand feast at the end. Disgusted? I am.
The article goes on to say how the man Selva had in his youth, killed two dogs, and in an act of intrepid stupidity, hung their carcasses from a tree. Within a year, he suffered from partial paralysis and lost his hearing too. Plagued by health problems incessantly, it was a mighty sad life that Selva led. Until an astrologer came with the perfect antidote for all this...to cleanse himself of the sin, marry a dog. Selva agreed wholeheartedly, and hence all this.
The wedding, apparently was presided over by all town elders. They draped the bitch in a silk saree and Selva took an oath to keep his better half happy. This act was covered by NDTV, Mumbai Mirror, and all leading southern newschannels and papers. It is with great satire that this article was reported in the Mumbai Mirror. Somewhere, something is missing. Shouldn't people be disgusted and appalled by all this? Who are these 'town elders'? Does nobody in that village have common sense? Are we supposed to sit back in our couches at night and laugh at this spectacle on TV? Or is it supposed to be our morning quota of newspaper humor?
Who needs serious help here? That guy Selva? Or the prescient astrologer? Or the entire village which was a party to all this? Definitely the media too, which, in a frenzy to report, has left its own morality and brains behind a long time ago. If you threw your head back and laughed at this, you need help too.
It is unimaginable, the amount of ignorance, illiteracy and poverty in a region which would lead to something like this actually happening.
So on the one hand, we have Yuvraj Singh getting a crore for hitting six sixes in an over, we have prominent ministers proclaiming modest assets worth tens of lakhs, we have Mukesh Ambani as the richest person in the world, we have Sunita Williams lecturing in IITB about how to dream big, and we have movies like Om Shanti Om made with a budget of crores.
And on the other hand, we have a poor illiterate man marrying a dog because he thinks his health will improve. And we have a woman in Raipur killed, because people suspected she was a witch.
Which is the real India? Is our version of modern India as fake as movie stunt glass made of candy?
Maybe some things in life can't be understood. For better or worse, our country and the people within fall in that category. Anyway, best compliments to Selva and his bride on behalf of the entire country.
The article goes on to say how the man Selva had in his youth, killed two dogs, and in an act of intrepid stupidity, hung their carcasses from a tree. Within a year, he suffered from partial paralysis and lost his hearing too. Plagued by health problems incessantly, it was a mighty sad life that Selva led. Until an astrologer came with the perfect antidote for all this...to cleanse himself of the sin, marry a dog. Selva agreed wholeheartedly, and hence all this.
The wedding, apparently was presided over by all town elders. They draped the bitch in a silk saree and Selva took an oath to keep his better half happy. This act was covered by NDTV, Mumbai Mirror, and all leading southern newschannels and papers. It is with great satire that this article was reported in the Mumbai Mirror. Somewhere, something is missing. Shouldn't people be disgusted and appalled by all this? Who are these 'town elders'? Does nobody in that village have common sense? Are we supposed to sit back in our couches at night and laugh at this spectacle on TV? Or is it supposed to be our morning quota of newspaper humor?
Who needs serious help here? That guy Selva? Or the prescient astrologer? Or the entire village which was a party to all this? Definitely the media too, which, in a frenzy to report, has left its own morality and brains behind a long time ago. If you threw your head back and laughed at this, you need help too.
It is unimaginable, the amount of ignorance, illiteracy and poverty in a region which would lead to something like this actually happening.
So on the one hand, we have Yuvraj Singh getting a crore for hitting six sixes in an over, we have prominent ministers proclaiming modest assets worth tens of lakhs, we have Mukesh Ambani as the richest person in the world, we have Sunita Williams lecturing in IITB about how to dream big, and we have movies like Om Shanti Om made with a budget of crores.
And on the other hand, we have a poor illiterate man marrying a dog because he thinks his health will improve. And we have a woman in Raipur killed, because people suspected she was a witch.
Which is the real India? Is our version of modern India as fake as movie stunt glass made of candy?
Maybe some things in life can't be understood. For better or worse, our country and the people within fall in that category. Anyway, best compliments to Selva and his bride on behalf of the entire country.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Succumbing
(The plaintive song of a person who tries to improve the world, but gets pulled down into the muck anyway)
And I have a billion dreams with me,
The world I will change, just wait and see.
The blind shall all see, the lame shall all walk
The deaf shall hear, and the maimed shall talk.
The poor will eat to their hearts fill everyday,
And without bitterness their prayers they shall say
Poor children will go to their schools and study,
The malnutioned will become able and sturdy
No home shall be dark, no fireplace shall be cold,
Warmth in every house, body, heart and soul.
No rest for me until I shall do all these,
Saying thus, I set out on the road to my dreams.
But life plays games with me, strange games
My naivete it destroys, humbles and shames
And all the blackness in the world I fight
But its a lonely struggle, and deepens night
No more I can see in front of me, darkness is so
I can't even find my goals within me anymore
And I join the rest of the world, laughing,
At my own misfortunes, and of those surrounding,
Blind to my dreams, that lie still somewhere
In a nook of my soul, but I am oh so unaware
And a billion dreams I had with me,
But the world finally got the better of me.
And I have a billion dreams with me,
The world I will change, just wait and see.
The blind shall all see, the lame shall all walk
The deaf shall hear, and the maimed shall talk.
The poor will eat to their hearts fill everyday,
And without bitterness their prayers they shall say
Poor children will go to their schools and study,
The malnutioned will become able and sturdy
No home shall be dark, no fireplace shall be cold,
Warmth in every house, body, heart and soul.
No rest for me until I shall do all these,
Saying thus, I set out on the road to my dreams.
But life plays games with me, strange games
My naivete it destroys, humbles and shames
And all the blackness in the world I fight
But its a lonely struggle, and deepens night
No more I can see in front of me, darkness is so
I can't even find my goals within me anymore
And I join the rest of the world, laughing,
At my own misfortunes, and of those surrounding,
Blind to my dreams, that lie still somewhere
In a nook of my soul, but I am oh so unaware
And a billion dreams I had with me,
But the world finally got the better of me.
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