Smaller than Life
Why a blog? Simple. Cacoethes Scribendi -- the urge to write! My literary pretensions and caprices bring me here. Like any writer I write to be read. All my posts, though fettered to my small world and trivially myopic, will live and yearn that somebody connects to them someday. Cognitive frenzies, sardonic musings, aimless banters, incoherent ramblings and trivial indulgences; this is simply an episodic narrative of my trivial world -- in a grain of sand… Smaller than Life.

Graffiti

When I am dead,
I hope it is said,
'His sins were scarlet,
but his books were read'.

- Hillaire Belloc

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me, --
The simple news that Nature told
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

- Emily Dickinson

The thoughts of our past years
          in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction

- William Wordsworth

Tuesday, February 24, 2004
 
This is not a test message!

My inbox told me, a couple of minutes back, that I had a new message. I opened it in great anticipation to find a new e-group mail from one of our PS mates snugly seated in my inbox. The subject line said, 'Hi all!' It is not customary for people in our PS to send non-business introductory mails. So I sat up to welcome the change in culture with open arms. I opened the mail. It read, 'This is a test message'. The message, apart from disappointing my derelict soul, left me thoroughly befuddled. Firstly, the remark went completely unintelligible to my rather dull faculties. After a heavy lunch, my drowsy cerebrum simply couldn't figure out what the gentleman was trying to test: whether he was trying to test if his mail client worked; whether he was trying to test if the net worked; whether he was trying to test if his computer was connected to the network. Or, probably the poor fellow was trying to test whether his keyboard actually worked. Or whether his poor fingers could type. Well, I shouldn't arrantly go on lampooning a soul in the gravest of doubts. For all my ridicule, the tortured soul was probably trying to test on the altar of Truth whether he could indite a mail at all. How encouraging it would have been for his dented morale. A ray of hope for his tenebrous clime! I felt happy for him for the instant. But unrelentingly my lonely mind leafed out to me its parable of woe. It coldly put out all the embers of altruistic happiness. And I replied, "Test failed".



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