The end of something

There are times when everything seems to be going fine -- no real tragedy, no impending bankruptcy, no severe illness. In short, a happy time.

If you've noticed that I've not written for the last few weeks, it was because I was having such a happy time. And one of the problems (at least with me) of happy times is that it spoils me and makes me utterly inactive. Not that I can claim to be active otherwise, but a little bit of unhappiness (like a nagging thought at the back of mind) helps me to be on my toes.

Now, I guess I might have offended some of you by boasting, in not such a subtle way, about my happiness. It's not my intention to show off, really. On the contrary, I wish to tell how this newly acquired happiness has adversely affected me. It has made me sluggish with its placidty. It has made my senses go blunt with its smoothness. You see, in my happiness, my laziness flourished -- I didn't feel like writing, nor reading. It was annoying to see what happiness has reduced me to.

TV channels and newspapers, despite all the hideous and ominous things they show and write, failed to suppress my happiness. I was impervious to the plight I saw or read. In fact, I started enjoying them.

I understand I'm taking this a little too far, but maybe, you can offer me some help by leaving a nasty comment or something. Who knows, it might actually do the trick.

Cynically

For a change, I'm a little busy these days. At work, as well as at home.

So my normal routine has somewhat suffered. I'm not keeping myself awake at unearthly hours to watch nonsense on TV. And I'm no longer eating Maggi noodles for dinner. Also, not reading anything (except newspapers) for almost a week.

Well, it took some effort to get accustomed to all these. No wonder, I was absent from blogging for quite some time. And even as I write today, I don't have any substantial things to say. (Did I really have any substantial things to say anytime in past?) It's more of a self-appeasing exercise.

Anyway, I think I pretended to be more busy than I actually was. For, as the saying goes, "A busy person is never short of time."

It's just that I was going through a phase when 'nothing happened.' Apparently, there were more things happening to me -- I was busier at work; I had more things to take care at home. But, somehow, everything I did, my mind drifted elsewhere. I think I'm indeed turning out to be a too difficult person, even for myself.

A saying comes to mind at this point. I don't remember where I read it, neither do I remember the exact words, but it expresses something like this:

"There are only two real grief in the world: one is not getting what you want, the other is getting it."

So, which one do you prefer?