Notes to Myself

I got a copy of Notes to Myself a long time ago. It came to me so long back that today I can scarcely recall my identity before it was altered in whatever little way that every book does by way of its thoughts.

What makes the book special to me is that it was gifted by a dear friend, in return for some help that I offered, or so I presume.

I had found my wings and could say with a fair amount of certainty that my rockets would send the white dust from the pin high enough to be seen in the periscope of the Biz. During those days of splendid glory, I had spent a few minutes more than one would normally sharing what I had learnt to him. All I did was share my passion, in whatever little way that I knew. I certainly was not a know it all, far from it. When you are free to roam the blue yonder, one minute more of experience could mean the experience of a lifetime. And I was willing to share if it would give any one that.

But today when I live another life, very distant from the one that I wanted, I want to read those few lines just once again. Today it's not to reminisce what I shared, but just to meet him just once more. Just once more before I bid another final good bye.

I bequeathed my wings out of my own folly, and have given up the glory that comes with it, but I guess I will forever bear the curse that comes with the wish of those glorious wings.