Dont feel like it.

I don’t feel like writing.

About, one in a billion Indian capable of human excellence.
It is ironically the same probability as one sperm cell in a billion capable of fertility.
Point is we are still not impotent.
Abhinav Bindra has proven that point.

Olympics were about human excellence within the realms of societal norms.
It was never about countries.
India anyway is not a country. Some say it’s a continent, I say it is a rather large village.

Indians are either above human Endeavour’s or haven’t reached the ladder of evolution as yet.
Performance at Olympics should not be taken too seriously.

I also do not feel like writing about India’s 61st birthday.
Mr. Singh, sucking up to the Madam from the ramparts of the Red Fort.
Shame on you and us is including me, for keeping you there.

Not even about Georgia, braving the Russians.

Even more I do not feel like writing about me,
As I am stuck in a giant swirl,
I can feel being slowly making rounds around the whole, going an inch lower after every round.

It is one of these moments when everything seems going wrong.
I am dying to see a different me tomorrow morning.
I am trying to escape this situation in my mind, knowing that in the morning I again to start fighting the same odds again.

This is a loser’s game, anyway you play it.
But then I do not feel like this or that.

All I feel like is,
Keeping my eyes closed, head resting on a soft cushion, hazy dreams, some in control and many let loose.
Face resting on a lap, hair being caressed, hands probing.
That this night would come some day and it would never have a morning.

Well at least I still feel something.