The door is pushed open by the wind, and shut, and opened... the cool wind gushes in intermittently. God mysteriously brings rain on Deepavali, even to Indore. Rain on this day used to piss me off many years back. Not anymore though. Crackers don't send blood rushing through my veins anymore. Showing off new clothes to anyone who cares to look, buying more fireworks than I could use... all that's gone. I'm too old for that kind of stuff. It's harder to get high as I grow older.
I'm sitting in my hostel room, listening to the rain... getting tutored to eat fellow dogs, amass wealth and die. Wish me luck.
"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams." -Khalil Ghibran
