It's not called the wheel, it's called the carousel

It's very difficult to get used to weekends. For over a year,  I've had work five days a week, followed by dance in the evenings, and then more dance on the weekends, so it feels really strange to have forty eight full hours at my disposal.

 I find that there's nothing more injurious to mental health than staying indoors and thinking a lot. One of the cumbersome realities of a (possibly) maturing mind is nostalgia, that ugly-beautiful, human sensation Don Draper so devastatingly defines (on behalf of the Greeks) as "the pain from an old wound."

I think the passage of time is simply not easy for the physical brain to process, so it keeps disrupting your normal train of thought with information from the past. One has to set it down somewhere. Writing and even, performing, helps me do that. But on some days, you've sprained your ankle and are lost for words...

So I decided to doodle. Serious doodling. I used to paint once upon a long time ago.

Sometimes I think that it is the happy and not the sad memories that inflict the deepest wounds. Every now and then while spacing out at work or in a Sunday afternoon's dream, I see images from one lazy summer full of mangoes at ammamma's place. And mango prints on sarees. Mangoes strewn like stars on a sea of flowing silk.

It's essentially nothing, just images of a time of when I could not comprehend the concept of an 'end' beyond the end of the holidays. Those were good times. Then you wake up, as if from a nap and it's been so many years.

Obviously my ability to express myself through images is pretty limited. But it feels light afterwards.