I would have been writing about a lot of things if they had been slightly different. Like if Schumi had made that sensationalunbelievableoutoftheworldheroic comeback. Like if Britney Spears had taken the stage at a sold-out concert and exploded. Like if India would have actually justified it's obsession with the retarded game of cricket. Like if I would have grown a third head when there had never been a second.
All of that didn't happen. What did happen was that we had to write a 'walking poem'(yes, this is yet another gandu doing what everyone else has done) and I wrote a poem which doesn't deserve to be called a poem because I can't write poems and if I can't write poems this can't possibly be a poem. But write I did. And though I agree that one of the justifications for shutting down all the blogging sites would be the leeway that poop-spewers like me get when it comes to putting up any and everything we think of on our blogs when none of it deserves to be even on the back of a shopping list, I'm not going to let that shame me into not posting it.
Yes, there is a serious lack of content here and to keep this blog alive, I have to flog it to within an inch of its life.
Prepare to be 'Oww'-ed:
As I amble along this forest path
A light breeze swirls around the leaves
The slanting afternoon sun breaks through the foliage
Its rays tinted all purple and orange
A gnarled, rotting trunk lies on the forest floor
In a pitiable state of decay
The living trees around it seem dark and almost mournful
Melancholic and sorrowful at this untimely demise
I walk on slightly despondent, but little do I know
On that very trunk, a little Peepul plant grows
Maggots and earthworms scuttle around in its rotting innards
And a clump of tumbleweeds bloom in all their unwanted glory
The rotting, visibly lifeless trunk
Once supple, mirthful and erect
No, it isn’t dying.
In these numerous, unwitting beneficiaries
It lives on.
And so do I. I live, despite writing this. Life's fair. Sort of.
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