Mountain vs. Sea

I think I have made a decision about which I like better: the ocean or mountains. It was a hard choice, mind you, for someone who has grown up in the verdant Himalayas, in the foothills of the mighty Kanchenjunga, in Darjeeling, this choice was not clear at all. But I think I prefer the ocean. I love the mountains, no doubt. I love how it looks different in the sunlight – different in the rising sun and different in the setting one. The myriad colors the sky makes when the first light breaks after a long shower that seemed to drown the entire universe. I remember it all, from my childhood, and from the several trips I’ve made to the mountains since.

However, the ocean, the sea is something else. The ebb and flow of the waves, the peaks and troughs, the dangers and the calm, all these remind me of life. The high tides and the lows, how things once washed away are later washed ashore are so symbolic of life itself. How in life there are ups and downs, joys and sorrows, how people come and go, leave things behind, memories, impressions, ideas. There is danger in life, as there is calm. But all in all, it’s one hell of a ride full of beauty and light and the ocean can be a metaphor for that.

One could make the same arguments about the mountains too, I recognize. However, I think I have made my choice. So, now I have to make plans for my next trip. What will it be? The mountain or the sea? I don’t know yet.

Handwriting

I used to be able to write. I would write a diary everyday, for a while. I wrote when something moved me, when I was angry or sad, or when I was besides myself with joy. Writing was a way to express myself, unburden my soul. I wrote poetry, plain prose, or just confessions. I don’t write anymore. I type. I type out term papers, emails, status updates, chats. But I hardly write. I am a consumer now – of news, information, news of family and friends, colleagues, past and present, and random acquaintances who are now all my “friends”. I follow every random detail of their lives – the trips they take, the friends they make, the disappointments they face. I know what they’re reading, how they feel when they read it. I read what they read and try to feel what they feel when they read it. I don’t think I can do or think of anything new, original, meaningful. It has all been said and felt and posted and updated. I feel like a fake, a failure because I don’t take those trips, make those friends, face those disappointments, experience those joys. I have forgotten to write – spellings, punctuations, grammar. My word-processing software can do it all for me. Put words in my text, correct my spellings and grammar and write it all in flawless print so that no one ever has to know that I have bad handwriting. My hand is aching as I write this page. I used to be able fill many such with my thoughts and ramblings and not get tired as easily. I would go back and re-read what I wrote and feel exactly the same feelings I felt when I wrote them, sometimes feel them stronger the second, third time around. Is writing a dying art too? I guess I mean handwriting. I will try to keep it alive in my own life, if only this damn arm stopped aching!

This piece was hand-written in my diary on September 3, 2011. It was typed out on June 3, 2012 for wider circulation but trust me I will try to keep the dying art and craft of handwriting alive!