My ability to procrastinate is immortal. Vampirically immortal. Bill Watterson once eloquently said that last-minute panic is the best frame of mind within which to work. This suits me beautifully, and deadlines are the disguised curses that dance upon my shoulders every day, whispering sweet nothings into my ears, while my brain dilutes them by reassuring me with time that I don't have to spare.
Why am I being poetic about procrastination, you ask? This is my round-about way of making excuses for not writing for what seems like an eternity in light of just how much has happened over the last six months. Would the fact that my life has been eventful and amusement-park-esque be another good excuse for my absence? Or would it make my lack of writing all the more despicable? I'll let the dancing devils decide.
This time last year, I was working at a crocodile bank in Chennai, after which there was a dull lull in activity back in Mumbai until the start of this year when I moved to Goa to work with WWF. Six months there has left me with more memories than I found myself capable of penning down or photographing. Sometimes, the mind's eye is truly the best kind of documentation. I've committed everything to memory, and I feel it's safest up there. No risk of losing diaries to the natural elements or photographs to the eccentricities of technology. Just my memory, that I can dig into at any given time of the day and smile about. If I could lay each moment end to end and sew them together, I'd have the most comforting blanket anyone could dream of.
When I got back, I hoped to write about it all. All. I made elaborate lists and mind-maps of the things I saw and learned about. I was so sure I could reach into that cluster of neurons I'd been building and indulge in blissful verbal diarrhoea. That...didn't happen. *Points at the dancing devils*
Why am I being poetic about procrastination, you ask? This is my round-about way of making excuses for not writing for what seems like an eternity in light of just how much has happened over the last six months. Would the fact that my life has been eventful and amusement-park-esque be another good excuse for my absence? Or would it make my lack of writing all the more despicable? I'll let the dancing devils decide.
This time last year, I was working at a crocodile bank in Chennai, after which there was a dull lull in activity back in Mumbai until the start of this year when I moved to Goa to work with WWF. Six months there has left me with more memories than I found myself capable of penning down or photographing. Sometimes, the mind's eye is truly the best kind of documentation. I've committed everything to memory, and I feel it's safest up there. No risk of losing diaries to the natural elements or photographs to the eccentricities of technology. Just my memory, that I can dig into at any given time of the day and smile about. If I could lay each moment end to end and sew them together, I'd have the most comforting blanket anyone could dream of.
When I got back, I hoped to write about it all. All. I made elaborate lists and mind-maps of the things I saw and learned about. I was so sure I could reach into that cluster of neurons I'd been building and indulge in blissful verbal diarrhoea. That...didn't happen. *Points at the dancing devils*
Here (or soon?) begins what will (oh, so hopefully) be a series of posts about Goa.
