As I type, my cat insists on grabbing the hand that hovers over the keyboard for a minute too long. Actually, he just mewed a very annoyed mew of a kitten that is being fooled into false company. My cat wants my full attention, nothing less will do. He just got insulted and jumped off my lap to make me feel guilty, btw.
So, the crux of this musing is, how everyone, or rather everything, needs attention and how often we fail to notice those silent pleas.
The flowers look sad and forlorn and stoop like an anaemic if one day goes without water. I choose to ignore some new seedlings in those black plastic bags out of sheer laziness (or too much on my plate) and next I know is they have died a silent, uncomplaining death. Guilty again.
The books gather a thin layer of dust and the pages turn yellow even before I have leafed through them once. The writing on the first page, a sweet dedication on what was once a special day, suddenly lashes at me from the past. I tear that page off, rubbish that writing I was so familiar with to bits. Guilty.
Father calls just as the man is going to say something really sweet to the woman he secretly loves. I talk half-distracted out of daughterly obligation knowing full well from his tone that he has nothing to say, but that he is missing me sorely. My cat gives me a look with his big green eyes and I know he has pronounced me guilty.
Everyone needs attention. The rational man will decide how much to give and when. But then, it is the irrational who are always happy. At least they are seldom guilty.
GG 1220 hrs April 18, 2013
So, the crux of this musing is, how everyone, or rather everything, needs attention and how often we fail to notice those silent pleas.
The flowers look sad and forlorn and stoop like an anaemic if one day goes without water. I choose to ignore some new seedlings in those black plastic bags out of sheer laziness (or too much on my plate) and next I know is they have died a silent, uncomplaining death. Guilty again.
The books gather a thin layer of dust and the pages turn yellow even before I have leafed through them once. The writing on the first page, a sweet dedication on what was once a special day, suddenly lashes at me from the past. I tear that page off, rubbish that writing I was so familiar with to bits. Guilty.
Father calls just as the man is going to say something really sweet to the woman he secretly loves. I talk half-distracted out of daughterly obligation knowing full well from his tone that he has nothing to say, but that he is missing me sorely. My cat gives me a look with his big green eyes and I know he has pronounced me guilty.
Everyone needs attention. The rational man will decide how much to give and when. But then, it is the irrational who are always happy. At least they are seldom guilty.
GG 1220 hrs April 18, 2013
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