Blue bottles

I don’t know when exactly I stopped asking questions.

I think I know why.

I remember me as a child. Asking questions about everything.

Butterflies, bile salts, the moon, magic, love, grandpas, behaviour, Pavlov, spinach, sad endings, precipitation, atmosphere, burning.

Boys, blood, trees, death, salty tears, Zentil, sickness, mites, dogs, golden things, Rabindranath Tagore, smells, tooth aches, grammar, reading-the-paper-aloud, why-noses-don’t-bump-type-kissing, marriage, fountains, sex.

I questioned existence, belief, dogma, e-coli.

Inquisitive child. Likes to learn.

Said a report card, without being critical.

But since then, there have been no questions at all.

Quiet child. Likes to keep to herself.

I can’t critically analyse stuff. Don’t ask pertinent questions.

Can’t think out of the box.

Can’t analyse statutes.

If it isn’t there in front of me, in black and white, I don’t get it.

Can’t be witty all on my own.

Can’t be someone who stands out for something other than academic value.

Can’t think of reasons other than what is offered conventionally, through social breeding.

Can not stop being ‘academic’.

For some reason, this make me sad.

And I can’t even question myself.

As to why?

I have been tagged. Again.

Much as this catapults me into the popularity stratosphere, I must remain here (if only for 2 minutes before blast-off) to inform you of its contents.

Three things I would take to a deserted island.
1. Daddy’s Credit card.
2. A pimped up lappie.
3. Johnny Depp.

Or

1. A volleyball.
2. A hammer.
3. A bottle of the finest tequila. For those charmed singing sessions around the fire.

I tag ‘em: Arjun, Jayanth and Minnie. And Tharunya.

Thank you, Mr. Housman.

For showing the way.

Even if it isn’t quite right.

Right now, I mean.