Last pages of the diary...

I sit down to write every night, and write.. after few moments I see that the only key had been used again and again. is the backspace.. How easily am I able to create and delete my virtual presence.. and yet how hard is it to live incapable of deleting or re-doing the real existence... A lot remain tangled in my head.. a lot of ideas.. stories.. thoughts..  nothing comes out as a single straw.. that I can pull out proudly and show case to others, I find myself dumb.. sitting in front of my screen staring at it.. My brain is as lazy as my body and make my thoughts as clumsy and muddy as possible...or may be I am not that good in expressing or juggling with words..

Courtesy: Google search

Still the urge remains, the need to write and vent out..  somebody asked me once, how I wanted to live? I said... like the last pages of the diary..


Those pages that we fill in just for the sake of filling, those pages that no one bothers to disturb.. those pages that are caught in between the windmill of life.... struggling to free itself from the diary to fly away carelessly, aimlessly in the wind, swaying to and fro, still undisturbed by the gust and force of the wind..dancing to every music of life and finally falling down majestically with the same brightness and rest in peace..


I know that my words contradict themselves, however that remains to be true, I am confused.. what am I? As I sit down to update my profile, I question myself What am I? how to explain myself with.. leave-off few.. even with a single word.. weird.. mysterious.. different..?? Some body once called me deluded.. The deluded girl.. I would rather say.. one who foolishly deluded herself into believing the unsaid and unheard..?? well.. Who knows and Who cares...