The Rebelle blog

Dylan Thomas wrote this and I am merely reiterating his words. How difficult it has become to be gentle! Or must I put it this way, how difficult is it to be gentle? I write here thinking about how cruelty often marks our hold on compassion. I feel too terrible about unleashing my fury on an innocent person, somebody I care for and would not like to put down with meanness. I wish I could just turn skip that moment in time and then behave calmly as I usually do. I cannot bear this guilt. How many times have I acted like this? The more I think of it, the more it kills me. I ought to reprimand myself. Everyone is trying their best. We cannot fight our battles with someone else just because we are not done with fighting with ourselves. It indeed is very exasperating to carry such a burden in our hearts when we could be doing so much more with a clean conscience. The more I write here, calm washes ashore all over me. This has been a lesson. Sometimes in my overstretched reverie, I see...

I was going through my diary entries from last year and found the following lines written on one of the pages. 'Summer days I remember The Sultry melanch' I don't quite recall now why I have left that word incomplete and where do these lines belong. I have never left anything unfinished and this is really a mystery to me. The first two entries on the diary page are lines from Dylan Thomas and T.S. Eliot. It's quite strange to be honest. I have googled a very many combinations of these incomplete lines but nothing has turned up so far. I am not sure if this is a poem or a verse. Aah! I wish I could just go back to last year when i was writing it and finish the lines. I get quite restless if I can't decipher a puzzle. And this is nothing short of a mystery. I suppose its time hasn't come yet. Someday I will know what words come next to melancholy. Right now I feel what Virginia Woolf once felt. I wish it were possible. Things come to such a...