TV is on

The boys were playing in the street. The little girl next door was speaking to her mother. The tv was running inside. Somebody last night was telling that he was dying inside everyday. I wonder how people can say things like that. Do they know what death is? It seems to me that it's become a sort of romantic notion that people use and take for granted.

When I was little, I was sad, I used to be sad for no reason. Especially when I was in school. Was it because I found the idea of being in school depressing? I can't say for sure. May be not. 

But all I could remember was, I used to gaze at the lines of casuarina trees through the window of the classroom across the empty pond, and I don't remember having anything particular in my mind. 

I can only rely on my memories, but memories can act in a strange manner; I agree. But what can one write about but from ones memory or if not; using ones imagination -that once again springs from memory. But memories age, that's the problem. My recent memory is more reliable than my old memory. But certain old memories are more vivid than certain recent ones.

The ball came flying inside the gate. I went and threw it back to them. They went away. The tv is still running, more louder. I am going to go out.