book

Recently I have developed this urge of writing a book. I don’t know what has got onto me, but this sense of doing something different is growing ten to a dozen. As far as I remember, I was always inclined to write, whatever it may be, most of the times it was absolute crap, infact all the time it was crap. Probably, my current condition at work is responsible for this, or maybe I am actually tired of slogging it out in medicine. It’s a strange form of pleasure, whenever I imagine myself, sitting under a tree, with a gentle breeze caressing my cheeks, soothing every wound my heart has, every complaint I have against everything that has gone wrong.

Although I had always said, mostly as a joke that someday I’ll write a book, these words have suddenly acquired a sense of truth, a sense of absolute possibility. I think there is a lack of creativity in my life at present. There is nothing much to actually think about, and more than that, I am in one of my spiritualistic moods, trying to find happiness in empty spaces.

I wish that I figure out a good topic soon, and work on it; I believe that this time, I might actually write….. A hell lot about everything that has touched my life.