Projections

All dimensions are perfect in a closely viewed isometric projection.

To obtain perspectives, step back and get away.

Dystrophy

I accidentally stumbled on the other side of my heart,
and now really cant tell one side from the other;

I mistakenly looked over the forbidden wall,
and now find that it doesnt exist anymore;

I disturbed the serene dripping of the hour glass,
and got stranded in time, for what seems like eternity;

Discovering reasons and deducing logic for what was once outrightly crazy,
I have doomed myself into a rational insanity.

Madness...

I am just a tiny insect

that suffers and spreads

this malignant disease

please have mercy

oh, do not judge me

am just a carrier, a conductor

in great pain myself;



I know not the origin,

I do not plan to attack;

nor do I have definite targets

I charge by instinct

I die by the same

The River

The river starts flowing again 
meandering its path boldly out of the sea 
at a high tide, defying gravity; 
now a bit salty, no more streamlined, 
it flows with a turbulence never known before

The Sun

The sun shines atlast, bright and dazzling;
blinding me to everything else
its rays kissing every bit of my skin,
As I greedily drink it in, scorching my throat, blistering;
lying back on the hot fissured ground, in a timeless bliss,
I relive the dream endlessly;
slowly dusk sets in, the retreating sun more beautiful than ever
as it leaves behind the longing for another day, another new promise

Another new shade...

A bitter sweet chocolate,
rich and creamy, satiably sweet;
a fresh new flavour, perfect and nourishing
yet every single time,
as the last bite melts down,
leaves behind a twinge of regret

The Fire

I was playing with fire,


smitten by its reddish blaze;

with a deep mysterious core

the heat was warm, tingling my senses;

melting and uncovering the cold crust of my heart



but the fire soon turned cool and blue,

I dared it to burn me, scorch me to ashes;

as i sought with vigor, it went cooler and darker

the blue flames no more soothing, leaves my heart colder than ever

The drama is over...or is it?

The drama is over...the curtains are drawn. Tabloids will have another week at the max sentationalising it, while conservatives "briefly" pay their condolences, loathing to say anymore on the grim subject.

That's how we are...At extremes. Either seeking food for our sensations, or being refinedly aloof. When are we going to actually see things for what they are?
As an emotional fool myself, I know what the price is. An entire nation cannot afford to be so. The media cannot fodder or cater only to just the sensations of its people.The cost is dangerous. Baby Falak - one of the thousands of children being abused and trafficked, or both, everyday in this beautiful country. Weeks after Falak got front coverage, there was a news about a "Baby Sanyam". thanks to the links..."Those who read this, also read.." Another baby, another unimaginable horror.

But baby sanyam quickly lost the limelight. Probably because he had his mother to care for. I have been googling for him ever since, dying to know what happened to him, how has he recovered, but no update whatsoever after the part that his biological father was fighting for his custody. For godsake, what happened to the child??

When I first saw the picture of Baby Falak lying in a hospital bed with her face masked, and her tummy covered with a lot of tapes and IV lines, I was naturally reminded of my younger one aged one. Because though two years old, Falak appeared to me only as big as my daughter.

I could not but feel that this could have been my own daughter. Well, I felt she is as good as mine. I could not imagine the horrors the little one, whom should have been showered with love and care, had undergone. Like thousands of Indian mothers who saw and cried over her plight, I too could not sleep that night.

From then on, I have been following her updates on the various news sites/ channels. For the past four or five days, the only bit of news about her was that she is stable, and was fit to be discharged in a week. I was anxiously waiting for the news about who will take her custody. It's believed that several people from India and abroad had volunteered to adopt her. Her mother, a victim of human traffickking herself, has been identified and is under the custody of a home run by an NGO.

I was patiently waiting for news that the "miracle baby" as the Doctors had declared her for surviving so many cardiac arrests and injuries and trauma, had all the possibilities to lead a normal life, and that her brain was not likely to be damaged. That was the one line I was dying to read on the next update. Sadly, this is not a fairy tale that I was reading.

"Baby Falak leaves for a better world"
"Videos, expert blogs, more breaking news on Baby Falak"
This is what Igot for googling her name today.
Seriously, I am unable to understand the psycology behind any of this.

We are all to blame to let this happen right before our own eyes. Forgive me too darling.
Helplessness hurts...and haunts.

India! Open your bleary eyes to Sex Trafficking

A sense of pathetic helplessness is stinging hard....
The past few days are haunted by just one thing...Baby Falak. Even the most hard-hearted person is moved to tears reading about her in so many news sites and channels that flash her story from various aspects. The whole country is praying for her - pipe in the reporters.

Yes, it's true. Nevertheless, the gnawing question is, how long are we going to just read such horrors on news papers, lament about it for a while, and wilfully, thankfully may be) forget them as we get engrossed in the all important affairs of our daily routine?

I personally have statistics; the number of times I felt sick and disgusted, engraged with so much frustration that ends up with a migraine. But it passes; fades away in due course, until another shocking headline hits the eye.

It seems that not a single person is to be blamed for the fate of Falak. The teenage girl responsible for Falak's current fate has clearly been a victim of intense sexual exploitation, possibly trafficking. An innocent baby left with nobody to care but a tramautized person, barely grown out of childhood. Who is to blame?

There can be no second opinions about all involved directly in Falak's case must be
severely punished. However, it'll only be chopping the tip of the ice berg. All the people who are to be blamed are linked to the never-talked-about business of sex trafficking.

It's not that we are not aware; we are aware of the human trafficking that flourishes in our country, aware of the enumerous teenage girls and children exploited in every inhuman way possible...what have we done?

Most of us don't even want to hear about them, it disturbs us. It shakes up our visions and dreams of a perfect world. We'd rather turn our backs on the dark aspects of life; pray to our "high and mighty" gods that we stay out of such dirty and lowly troubles.

It's high time the government takes a serious hand to curb this horrendous business that is going about. Individual crusaders like Sunitha Krishnan face all the hurdles in the world to do their might. However, without stricter laws in place and forceful execution, there is little hope for a better future.

May be the government should legalize prostitution, let willing adults indulge in it with safe measures. well, they might face vehement opposition from Saffron clad crusaders for daring to defame the "rich cultural heritage" of this holy land.

We stand at a threshold to decide what's important. The lives and fates of thousands of innocent children? or our self-inflicted, self-destroying, highly hypocritic notion called "Indian (read Hindu) culture"

Last (name) but not the least?

http://ibnlive.in.com/news/not-many-moved-by-the-plight-of-dalit-woman/219969-3.html

I was darkly amused at the irony of this Smitha 'Nair', (Iyers, Reddys, or Pillais for that matter) reporting so sanctimoniously about heinous crimes meted out against a Dalit woman in Maharashtra.


While the reporter's good job is certainly commendable, what makes one wonder is, when you can't shed your own caste titles, you innately feel proud about your so-called higher castes, what's the point in fighting against crimes based on casteism?

A caste abolished society is what we must be aiming at, reservations are only a path towards that. It is one thing mentioning your caste on paper and getting the benefits of goverment allotted reservations; appending it to your name and flaunting it about is another.

The media which brings such news to the public can atleast make sure their reporters say only their first names. It adds a heavy dose of sarcasm to the whole thing.

The Hindu : Opinion / Lead : I'd rather not be Anna

The Hindu : Opinion / Lead : I'd rather not be Anna

A Night of Fireworks!

Disclaimer: Those who have read Harry Potter and fancy the Snape-Hermione pair can appreciate (or throw stones at) this better! Others please bear with this mushy love story. :) And also, I don't own any of these characters, nor do I claim to make any money out of this writing. The characters and credits all belong to J.K. Rowling.

Snape was standing alone in the astronomy tower. It was the graduation day of class 1997 batch, or more popularly known as Harry Potter’s batch.

The celebration was running late into the night. The Hogwarts grounds were lit up with the euphoria of the young witches and wizards more than the spectacular fireworks that were currently going on.

It was actually happening three months later than usual, owing to the most significant breakthrough in the wizarding history brought about by Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - Voldemort with all his horcruxes and death eaters eradicated from the universe.

Harry certainly proved his worth to Snape after all – Snape reminisced over the boy’s courage and true Gryffindor spirit, which Snape had always thought Dumbledore had overrated. He also remembered how Harry rushed to his help once it became discernible that Snape was not on Voldemort’s side but had been, just like Harry, Dumbledore’s man, through and through. Truly, it was a time of incredible changes happening all over.

“Oi Harry! watch out” – Ron’s voice was heard as his mischievous sister… whatzer name..ah Ginny had tried to tie a sparkler to Harry’s robes. Snape gave a huge sigh. He was unconsciously jealous of the strong bond of friendship between Harry and Ron, and of course Hermione. He especially admired Ron for his unflinching loyalty towards Harry, and wondered how he put up with his friend’s glory and nobly took sidelines, despite doing everything in his power for him. He wished if only he had had his taste of pure friendship, his life would have been drastically different. But he never had any real friends.

However it was not the “Conqueror” (as Harry was called these days!) or his best mate who was on the forefront of his mind, now… He was thinking about something else. Something that he greatly feared – an unwanted, despicable emotion that was surfacing in his mind. Snape suspected this was Dumbledore’s doing. He did not know how, but he felt sure that when Dumbledore died, he had transplanted that secret power in his heart – the only aspect on which Snape had always disagreed with him.

Snape had never felt more uneasy or alone in this world, not since his mother died. He had resolutely turned his back on that particular emotion, determined never to be hurt by that sentiment since his school days when he had craved it with all his heart and could find no hope of getting it. His extreme grief and bitterness towards love and life was what that drove him to the dark arts. Even after his realization that he had been very wrong and came over to Dumbledore’s side, he had never fully comprehended his mentor’s views on this particular subject.

But now, it was she – the cleverest and bravest witch in Hogwarts, younger to him by a score of years, one who had intrigued him almost as much as the dark lord, who was wringing out of him something he never would have admitted, he possessed.

They had both been there, fighting the death eaters. She led the DA members in the absence of Harry and was an indispensable part of the Order. She was the one who discovered Snape’s secret about following Dumbledore’s orders and revealed it to the public. She was the one who remained by his side in the wilderness where the bloody war was waged; she healed his wounds and took care of him until he was ready to apparate with her back to Hogwarts.

Everyday she visited him in the hospital wing and stayed quietly by his side, seeing to his needs, while he pretended to be asleep. Snape was greatly puzzled, - what was this girl, best friend of Potter and Weasley doing here with me?

When he was finally cured to health and was ready to leave the hospital wing, he briefly thanked her for her care but dared not ask her why she had apparently spent all her time nursing her old, not to mention her least favorite professor while all her friends were busy studying for their NEWTs. But nevertheless, he was touched more deeply than he wanted to acknowledge.

But what would the lack of last minute studying cost such a genius as she is? Snape thought with a smile. She had topped all subjects with more than 200 percent in each. She was a student worth having. Just a student? – No Severus! Check that emotion!

Snape remembered how he had once made her cry in class by calling her an “insufferable know-it-all”. It had irritated him that not one Slytherin student could outshine Hermione in class. She was a brilliant potion maker. Again, he was ashamed to think that he had never given her due recognition in class. But then, she was annoying – challenging his every difficult potion lesson. He used to plan lessons with her alone in mind. “Let’s see if Miss. Perfect can make it this time!”. And yet, it was his own potions book that had led to her downfall, crediting Harry last year.

And she was such a darling among all the staff members. She was always the object of praise after every test and examination. Flitwick, McGonagall, and Sprout would sing her praises – not only about her academics, but her sharp intellect, her wit, her tremendous maturity and dignity for her age, her eagerness to help others, - oh my Severus, you certainly remember a lot for someone who has pretended to turn a deaf ear to all those talks!

Yes, he would just carelessly nod his head even when they appealed to him for approval. He certainly could not explain why he had never joined them in their praises. He had always been a loner at Hogwarts. He was preoccupied with the perils which he knew he would have to face one day or the other. He had but little care for most other things. But then there is something called ‘the subconscious mind’ – that which works in the most mysterious ways – as Snape’s had been working.

“I don’t remember asking you to show off Miss. Granger” – that was all he could say to her when he caught her helping Neville. – he felt a twinge of guilt again.

She would be gone tomorrow… to her muggle world. Then probably she might return to qualify as an Auror, or Healer …she was qualified for anything. She would hang around with her friends. Probably marry one of the Weasleys, and he Snape would mean nothing to her. All her caring for him these past days were just out of her sympathy towards him.

A sharp pain cut through his heart like a knife. Dumbledore’s words rang in his ears, “You have a heart, Severus. A most noble one… and it is certainly capable of love - a most powerful love. What it needs is an equally noble and loving heart to see through the rough exterior.” “I shall never ever yield to such a fateful temptation, sir. Much as I respect your views on it, I can happily do without it, thanks”. Dumbledore just smiled and said no more.

Hermione was now dancing with Ron. Harry and Ginny pointed at them and laughed over something. Flustered, Hermione immediately stopped dancing and left the dance floor, leaving Ron to take over Luna.

Snape followed her with his eyes. What was she up to? Surely she is a mystery. Wonder who she’ll date. I doubt there is one boy in her class or above who could equal her.

He wished she was with him now… He wanted to hold her in her arms; to talk to her pleasantly (though he had no idea how to, having never praticed it!) and just - just tell her… how good a student she was; and how much he would miss her… (in class of course!).

With a sudden jolt, Snape shook his head. ‘No this will not do…’I need to be away from this place. I shall never succumb to such a great folly’. He covered his face with his hands and suppressed a mammoth sob, when he heard a soft voice behind him – “Professor…”

Snape turned around sharply and saw her. Silhouetted against the starry sky, she stood radiantly.

“Miss. Granger…you…alone here” – Snape was completely startled by her sudden appearance and words failed him.

“Professor, what was this folly you were muttering about…?” - there was a mischievous glint in her eyes, that reminded him of Dumbledore.

“Nothing…” was the curt reply. “Why are you not down there – celebrating? What brings you to this old Potions Master at this odd hour”, he added. In the few moments that passed he had managed to gather himself up.

“Well, that’s what I came here for - to celebrate!” She came closer to him. He drew his breath and inhaled her sweet perfume.

“What do you mean?” – his heart missed a beat.

“Surely professor, you must know what I mean, or you would have most cruelly insulted me for all my doings these days.” She came closer and looked up at his face. Her eyes were glistening… She held out her hand and took his arm. She pushed back his sleeve attempting to see how better his wounds had healed.

The casual touch was all that took to crush Snape’s resolve. He grabbed her hand and held it halfway towards his heart. His face was in immense pain as he spoke hoarsely,

“Miss Granger, why do you torture me this way? You do not know what you are doing. Please leave.” He abruptly dropped her arm and his face turned stony again, as he turned his back to her and leaned on the parapet.

Hermione waited a few moments for him to calm down and touched him oh so gently on his shoulder. “On the other hand, I know exactly what I am doing. It’s you who do not know how much you mean to me. It’s been a long time since I have realized that you are the only man I can ever love. I could not help falling for you ever since I came to know of your true character, despite that perplexing enigma you are to the world. Oh, Severus, I love you, and you have no idea how much I want you. I crave to give you all the love you have missed. I only hope I deserve that great privilege. I ask nothing from you but a bit of your true heart. You never need to feign affection for me. You can be yourself and just let me love you all my life.”

Snape was dumbfounded… No, he must be imagining all of this; it can’t be true. His mind was in a whirl; the stony mask of his face was slowly fading out.

Hermione waited, and watched. She saw enough to assure her of her success. She just stood there looking at him.

Snape looked up and saw that she was both smiling and crying. The clever girl had certainly not required Legilimency to read his mind. She just knew!

Snape found himself clearly defeated. Here was a woman he would love to give in, to die for. She was a class of her own, not empty-headed and naïve. She promised him a whole new world of love and happiness; a delightful intellectual companionship; nothing to say about the loveliness of her womanly charm. His heart swelled with pride and emotion. She loved him! she wanted him!

He found himself wanting to have her; to love her, to adore her, to be with her the rest of his life.

He did not know for how long they were looking at each other that way... At last Severus held out his arms, not a second before she threw herself into his open arms and held up her face to him as he kissed her; first gently on her forehead, then her eyes, and as she impatiently stood on her toes, her wet lips.

Severus could not believe this happening; he could not trust his own luck! the woman of his dreams - not that he had ever dreamed of her, but she was undoubtedly the one for him, who suited him perfectly in every way he could think of, and more!

He held her closer and stroked her bushy hair; then holding her at arm’s length he said:

“My dear insufferable know-it-all – they may call Potter “the conqueror” but for me you’ll always be ‘the angel who conquered this devil’”

Hermione laughed and kissed his nose, “yes! the most handsome hook-nosed devil!”

“Handsome? Me? I know what the students call me – the greasy git – right?”

“Pardon them… they don’t have my eyes, or allow me to say - my exceptional ingenuity to see what you really are!”

“Very true my dear” – Snape charmed her with one of his most bewitching rarest smiles.

Hermione snuggled up against his chest and closed her eyes… determined to make the moment last as much as it could.

The air was once again bright with fireworks…

Snape looked above and offered a salute to Dumbledore.

The best medicine!

All the wrath I carefully grew,

every irate word that I honed;

over hours of fretting and fuming,

anticipating sweet revenge...

blow up in a puff of empty fumes,

at that astute little taunt of yours;

I end up admiring your witty tongue,

laugh at myself; refuse to be stung!

oh, how I hate myself for this...

I wish I had no taste for humor;

it makes me lose my armor of honor!

I am falling...

I am falling, falling, falling down, swaying my hands for help in vain.

I know that I have my own buoyancy, the only force that could lift me up, higher above than I could have ever imagined. Yet, I am clueless why I hesitate to use it. May be I am lazy, may be this is easy, yielding myself to gravity. I have been told I can’t fly. I have been told I ought not to rise. And those words are tied like an invisible stone round my neck.

So here I am, vainly seeking those hands, those whose touch I have relished in the past, of those whose only shadows remain at last.

My grey cells, fogged with some pinkish hue, they have happily stopped functioning for a long time now.

Thus remain I in a false bliss, falling, falling, into a great abyss.

I am falling...

I am falling, falling, falling down, swaying my hands for help in vain.

I know that I have my own buoyancy, the only force that could lift me up, higher above than I could have ever imagined. Yet, I am clueless why I hesitate to use it. May be I am lazy, may be this is easy, yielding myself to gravity. I have been told I can’t fly. I have been told I ought not to rise. And those words are tied like an invisible stone round my neck.

So here I am, vainly seeking those hands, those whose touch I have relished in the past, of those whose only shadows remain at last.

My grey cells, fogged with some pinkish hue, they have happily stopped functioning for a long time now.

Thus remain I in a false bliss, falling, falling, into a great abyss.

Singles

You start with wondering about them
You begin pitying them
You tend to stay away from them
You end up envying them like mad

Windows

There are all types of windows

Curtained ones that let you peep;
but mostly shut with secrets deep.
Sly windows that reflect your face;
but never reveal what’s inside their case.
Painted ones with many a color;
So you admire the façade, and care no further.
Secret windows that you know not are there;
but watch you always, from like, nowhere.
Quiet, dark windows that intrigue a lot;
draw you close and alas! you’re lost.

it’s really a lifetime’s worth of a chore;
to find the pair that’s perfect and more.
that which opens for you at a glance;
yet, that puts you not in a trance.
which makes you never want to look away;
but shows you everything near and away.

Mother – by Maxim Gorky

Got to know and love Gorky’s mother. Yes, that’s how I can put the experience of reading about her. The best thing about this classic is that it is told in the views of a simple and endearing village old woman. Yes, she is simple, yet she attains as much greatness as a human soul could possible do.

She does not rise as a heroine overnight, nor are there any incredible twists and turns that enable her transformation. Yet this gripping tale of a woman who is already past her times, regains a new lease of life through her comrades.

Sowing the motherly love she has for her own son, she reaps a much greater love with which she embodies the entire world. In her own words, she marvels at the vastness of her own heart.

The Mother, set in the revolutionary period of Russia, is the story of Pelagueya Nilovna, the mother of Pavel Vlaslov, a great revolutionary.

The mother is a poor widow of a factory worker. She has had a terribly hard life with her beastly drunkard of a husband, knowing nothing but beatings and constant terror of being beaten up. After his father’s death, Pavel also becomes a worker at the factory run by the rich and creamy of the society. The wealthy industrialists feed on the sweat of the peasants and factory workers. The country is under the czar’s monarchy, the authorities ruthless, and the people in undue misery.

The mother gradually observes that her son is very different from what her husband or other factory workers have been. She finds him reading in all his free hours and one day he brings home a group of strange people from the city, amidst whom there is also a young woman.

The mother very slowly comprehends that these "young children" are revolutionaries actively working for a movement through which they hope to create a whole new world.
A world as it should be! clean and beautiful, a world that has "everything for all, and all for everything". A world that worships work, and makes it obligatory for every living person. A world that is strange to evil, thievery, greed, and misery.

She first merely considers them as precocious children engrossed in a new play. She then involves herself into it, more out of her love for her son and his friends, than anything. But slowly she understands, appreciates, and voluntarily gives herself to the cause. She stimulates the rest of the mothers and fathers to be with their children, to help them in their journey of seeking truth; to be proud of their own sons and daughters who are willing to be tortured themselves so they can to free the spirit of the entire human race.

It’s a tale that moves you to tears, yet makes you laugh with the same childlike fervor that she feels.
It’s the tale of a mother whose pure love for her son makes her take the same rough path as his, so far only dared by dashing young men and women.
It’s a tale of hope and truth. It’s a tale that reminds you once again that the greatest things in life are always simple and humble, waiting only to be seen.

My Story – Kamala Das

Recently after the demise of renowned author Kamala Das, I was tempted to read her much-talked-about autobiography "My Story"

Somehow I had a preconceived notion that it was a tale of melancholy and self-pity. The authoress proved me deadly wrong with her witty and quirky way of describing things; and the rebellious way she chose to live her life.

The book begins with her childhood experiences in Calcutta with her affluent and modern family, though she claims it being nothing more than middle-class.
She briefly gives us a picture of the racist treatments she and her brother had to endure in the British school, which openly preferred whites and degraded Indians and blacks, their society with a few English and Anglo-Indian neighbors and friends, and the anglicized cook who scorned at the children’s table manners.

After a few years, they move to Nalapat, her hometown in Kerala. The vivid and nostalgic descriptions of the ancient house, surrounding gardens, the stage plays she wrote and acted with her brother, her grand uncle who was a great scholar, aunts, grannies, household maids, get us hooked onto her story.

She also light-heartedly mentions her life in a convent that she briefly went to. The letters she used to write home from there used to be very demure and boring, much to the surprise and ridicule of her brother, who knew her better!

It’s a tale of an Indian girl, bold and educated, full of dreams with a no-nonsense attitude, who is brutally subjected to a medieval-age kind of arranged marriage in the tender age of fifteen, and the domestic worries and burdens that follow.
Very clever and much learned for her time, her views of life largely contrasted with the society she had to put up with. Therefore, things tended to become all the more difficult for her.

The authoress has the least intention of seeking pity or justification for some of her actions, and neither are those sentiments aroused in the reader.
However, it’s this incredible honesty of the authoress that has brought her both much acclaim and criticism.

I think this book might instill varied opinions, each time it is read, or when re-read after a long period. And that, I think, is the best aspect of a successful autobiography.

My StoryAutobiographyby Kamala DasRs. 100D C Books, Kottayam 686 001
(Available in Landmark, Chennai)

Ramblings of an uncanny mind

I just can't define myself. If you ask what is my personality I don't have a clear answer. May be that is what I am. May be not. I don't even know if I am easily predictable or not.

One thing I can safely say about myself is that I am unstable. No, not in that dangerous way you think of. Just that I have volatile emotions, a few sublime qualities that are rarely seen, and a highly inflammable temper. That sounds like a chemistry lab, right? Well, chemicals are what all our emotions are made of, they say. And as long as the proportions do not greatly vary from the desired limits, you are normal. So actually, I am normal. But I can't deny that I am partially insane. But for that matter, who in the big wide world isn't?

If you are sane, you should probably stop reading this at this point. Oh! but you don't. So that means you are not as sane as you believe too! Join the club.

Sometimes, I think I am thinking too much about myself. Am I being so self-centered, selfish, egotistical, egoistical, and whatnot? oops! I am still thinking about myself. But if I had done that for a fair period of time, I should have found out who I am and what stuff I am made of. But I haven't got around finding out that so far. May be I am stupid, no I think I am definitely stupid. That's comforting to say the least. Atleast I am not eccentric.

Well, coming to the point (I know you are wondering if I really have one, well hold on please) what I mean to say is actually you should be glad if you are yet to know yourself. The fact that you surprise yourself at moments, that you feel emotions that you never know existed within you, you do stuff that you never knew you could, discover things that you never imagined you would, gives you a new lease of life, everytime. That's the way of life. Do not label yourself.

Give in, give in, give in like a leaf to the eternal breeze that's called life.

Of course, resist change; fight change; but at the end happily give in, with the knowledge that you fought with all your might. That the change was not inflicted upon you, but you allowed it consciously, albeit reluctantly. Trust me, it gives you an inexplicable satisfaction.

What you have to really fear is stagnation, it is delightfully comfortable, oh yes! but only if you look forward to bury your soul and rest your head there.