The Little Things.

I’m in the train on my way home now and my head hurts a little and there’s the beginnings of a song stuck in it that I know I’ll forget if I don’t go home and work on it tonight. But I won’t be home till past 10 tonight and I have work to finish off before I sleep. And I have a brand new deadline to meet at work tomorrow and a printer to meet when I’m back home and I like all of these things that I’m working on but I don’t know when I’ll make this song.

I think I’ll be freer day after. But that’ll be too late and the song will be gone.

And so it is. We give up on the little things because we have so little by way of time. But it makes me sad to do that sometimes. And I wonder if those little things aren’t the ones that matter most of all.


Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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