I do not have anything to say. But that does not mean that I don't feel strongly on some matters. It is just that, the floor is sparse, and I only see a few alphabets, here and there. They are just not sufficient for me to form sentences or provide some coherence to those sentences. No, it is not one of those days. That would be like sitting on a buttress of a big old tree which has branches low enough to almost touch the ground and on those branches, many leaves forming a natural curtain, so that when the breeze blows, the curtain would raise a little, revealing some activity of life on the outside. But here, in the shade, there is nothing else to do but feel the sporadic breeze on my face and listen to the chirping of the birds. No, it is not happiness. It is a calmness, seemingly of no remorse and no euphoria. Simply being. It is not easy to be simply being. Stones are simply being. Trees, like the old tree that I am sitting down under, is simply being. The breeze which blows on my face is simply being.
You see, there are not many words on the floor. When there are no words, there is no remorse and no euphoria because there are no more words to describe them.