Living the writing

I take a leisurely walk towards the cricket field. I know there is a match being played today. Expecting a gripping dual, I sit down under a tree. My eyes follow the ball in motion and the players' movements. All my concentration is on the game. I forget rest of the world. The match,however, turns out to be a boring matter. At least, I fail to gather any excitement from it, as a mere spectator. I leave the ground and again start walking, undecided of where to go.

I take pleasure in admiring the red-clad Gulmohar trees. The nature is at its best of colours this summer. I can't keep my eyes fixed on that red colour. My gaze keeps moving - from one tree to the other, all in their full blossom. On the street I see fallen flowers - the whole street is also dipped in the colour dripping from the above. The fresh flowers on the trees look at their brothers and sisters - the youngs of yesterday - now fallen. And maybe they realise their future. The fallen flowers recount their memories - perhaps they are telling the wind everything about their days up there. The wind is trying to unsettle the patterns, probably pitifully attempting to soothe the old petals. I keep admiring this majestic scene, and move on.

Am I living my writing, or writing my living?

I am not sure, but I am surely enjoying both!