Hey, there!

Welcome to a resumap! A resume can only say so much.

🤖 And they tend to feel robotic, don't they?

Resumaps are designed to fill the gaps in your resume. If you want to stand out, a resumap is a fun way to help people get to know you. After all, wouldn't you want to know who you're hiring? So if you want see more, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight 🚀

Section 1

Here's where you can add a narrative to take your resume to the next level. Where did you come from? What really brought you there? What made you leave? This is to let people get a glimpse of who the person behind the paper is. This is New Mexico...but you can center your map however you want.

Section 2

As your readers scroll through these sections, your resumap will fly them to the locations you've specified. A sense of place is something that a lot of people resonate with. Where you were when you did what you did is half of the story.

Add some line breaks to start a new paragraph if you want to feel fancy.

Section 3

You can add pictures!

Section 4

Or even gifs!

Section 5

Or videos! WHAT!

Section 6

The most important thing is to tell your story. What makes you you?

Time to make your own

Have fun!

view rawresumap.html hosted with ❤ by GitHub

How I wish you were here

When I was 8 years old, we were asked to write a Hindi essay on our favourite festival. I knew everyone would write on Diwali or Christmas or Holi. So I chose to write on Rakshabandhan, because I knew the significance of it and I knew that my teacher would give me marks on the novelty of my choice. I swear I didn't do it because you were sick or because I loved you. I was a smartypants as a kid, that's all.

I still have that essay, scrawled in neat pencil marks across three pages of school-issued stationery, hidden away from prying eyes. I don’t know what made me keep that essay for so long. It’s a bitter reminder of all that I am missing today.

I wish you were here. It doesn’t matter that eight years is a long time and that I can convince myself for having moved on. It doesn’t matter that I have some of the sweetest friends supporting me. It doesn’t matter that I have become a stronger, independent woman – an adult with responsibilities, progressing in my career. It doesn’t matter that when I phoned Mom and Dad to tell them I got my first real job, I heard both of them beaming right through the screen. I know they opened a bottle of wine to celebrate that night.

I wish you were here because things would have been different. Its not things are bad now, or that we wouldn’t have had problems if you were around. My life is now filled with so many important people, and you don’t know half of them. I would have liked you to meet the boys I dated. Probably would have appreciated having you around to warn me about some silly mistakes I made. It would have been nice to see your face when I went to my school farewell. You would have probably driven to pick me up and I can imagine my teenage friends having a crush on you and never admitting it to me. I recall that “coffee date” in Modern Colony where we sat on the car bonnet, eating Masala Pav and having that intense conversation on what Bachelors I should study.

Remember that time you tried teaching me how to ride a bike? Your instructions were simple. Sit on it, switch on the ignition and go for it. You were laughing as my stocky feet struggled on the gravel-ridden path behind our society parking, as I accelerated in the miserable hope I could figure it out. Well, I learnt how to drive a car and did a fairly good job of it without you, mister. I still wish you were there so we could have taken midnight trips to Lavasa in the rain. I think that would have been nice.

I can’t play the guitar anymore. I carry your purple Jim Dunlop in my wallet. It’s what you did, so I try to keep the tradition on. Everytime I hear the intro to Hotel California, I think about the summer nights when we sat on the floor and practiced the chords with our toneless voices warbling as an accompaniment. Coldplay has been performing in India…It would have been fun to go to a concert. We could have probably gone backpacking across Europe, filled Facebook with ridiculous selfies. 

I see all your friends doing so well in their lives and I am happy for them, truly, I am. But it clenches my heart to wonder how well you could have been doing too. You would have probably left home, gotten yourself a fancy girlfriend and it would have be so convenient to dislike her. Maybe adulthood would have come between us and we wouldn’t be very close. Maybe we would only converse through Mum and call each other once a month. I don’t know. 

All this distance and time that separates us has stolen so much from me. How can I not be bitter? Mom and Dad provided for me but you are the first part of my family. There are so many secrets that only siblings can share and how do I unburden myself to anyone who has not experienced the love we had? I wish you were here. I would probably be a different person. I probably wouldn’t be this happy. Probably I wouldn’t do half the crazy things I do because I wouldn’t be living for both you and me. Words cannot describe the emptiness I feel -despite the years and all the wonderful people I have met. I wish we had more time together and I hope you know how much I love you, even though I was naïve to never say it enough number of times. I hope you knew.

Abhi na jao chod kar...ki dil abhi bhara nahi

I have been here long enough to see the same trees turn their leaves from green to yellow to red. I have seen them shed these leaves in Autumn, holding on until they must let go and fall afar, waiting to be crushed under. And then came spring and pink blooms are bursting, competing with each other to be seen. But this tree here? It's a slow one. It's struggling. But it's here. The branches are up high but the shadow still fits in all the right places, all the damned right places.Who thought trees go through emotional phases like you do? 

 

Clasped feelings

You and I, we knew it was our last time together.

It was instinctive, the words were unneeded and unsaid.

We knew, you and I, and we accepted it individually,

but did not acknowledge it.

The silence in the room was pierced by the rhythm 

your breathing took against mine.

And as we calmed down,

my head in your arms,

your heartbeat at the back of my head,

your fingers found a pattern on my naked skin.

They traced circles as if the lines in your palm could

gather memories with every touch 

and hold them infinite.

I should have told you that iridescent memories can only be

created, but never clasped.

They don't endure.

We did something different that day when we didn't 

smoke like we always did.

I didn't ask for it.

I couldn't.

The thought that a shared cigarette would end

with a kiss on my parting lips would mean 

there was a chance this ritual would happen again.

I was leaving. 

I should have told you about iridescent memories.

I should have told you that 

everything beautiful is ephemeral.

 

One Sunday Afternoon

It is 32 Degree Celsius on a Sunday, a criminal level since the summer hasn’t arrived yet. If I didn’t know better, I would say that the fuchsia bougainvilleas seething their flowers were almost angry with the heat. The sun followed me as I finally manage to find a parking spot in a by-lane parallel to FC Road. After much bending, peering and searching, I make sure that I park on the right side of the road since it is odd-number date.

I walk around in college, hoping for a building’s shadow to give some respite and the cool stone walls to lean against. Green leaves, just shooting from demi-dead trees, wiggle their way and shine an ungodly colour in the harsh day light. Couples scurry into the corners, finding excuses to sit closer than needed in the extreme space. Leaving home under the pretext of getting extra study time, they leave their books open on their laps, while their hands, clenched together and their heads bent far too close for meaningful conversation.

The odd young man sits on parapets, white ear phones plugged in, listening to Sunday’s love songs special on the radio. A dog snoozes a step below him, his head on his paw, his right ear flicking the occasional fly, content for the stranger’s company on a holiday.
The canteen is shut and even though the campus is empty, my solitude feels breached. I make my way to the pretentious coffee shop across the main gate. I order benevolently for my nature, knowing that I pay for the AC and the fancy loo, than for the pretentious coffee. It’s impossible to find an empty table here too. How is it that so many people stay at home on Sundays and yet so many crowd the place you want to be? I sit at my table, nestled between a shelf of oversized coffee mugs (“Free if you spend *an ostentatious amount* until 30th March!”) and tables with low settees, occupied by young men and women. The guy right opposite me, an in-between of young and middle-aged furiously types at his golden iPhone, revering it like a Father does his Bible. He looks up occasionally, between messages I suppose, turns his eyes left to right, and gets back to the task at hand. Every time the door opens and someone walks by his table, he pauses, interrupted by the heat that the new customer ushers in. The girl behind me, clothed in a bright green scarf, sips her cold latte, dabbing at the corner of her mouth, flipping pages to the book she is immersed in.

At a another table, a husband and wife sit, requesting water from the counter. They wait and wait and wait and are served after ten minutes. “Water is free of charge,sir” the waiter informs him, with the trained smile he was taught before he joined work. They feel out of place but maintain their cool, looking around and smiling at anyone who catches their eye. The husband stares at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the pipes jutting out, made to look cool. Back in his hometown, his civil contractor brother would tut at this fanciful bohemian interior. The wife twists the corners of her pink dupatta between her fingers, hands never leaving her laps, the way her mother taught her. They are shortly joined by a smartly-dressed young man, wearing a black suit and  aviators. He sits at the table, shakes the other man’s hand and politely nods at the lady before leaning back, pulling off his shades and sweeping his fingers through his hair.

The barista calls out his name. That is the only loud sound, louder than the supposedly subtle jazz and the din of inconceivable conversations.I eat hungrily, grateful for the oven-toasted carbohydrate and the molten cheese. Not wanting to fidget with my phone, I pull out a book from my backpack lying at my feet. I eat and read, devouring bite and word. It’s now been an hour since I sat at the table, the one between the coffee mug shelf and the couple-laden tables. I ignore my phone. I ignore the calls and I ignore the messages. It rings in silence and it rings in vain.The crowd just keeps increasing.

My laptop battery is about to die. My book is read. My phone flashes and silences. I have nothing else to offer now. I pack my things, smile at the barista who thanks me and leave. We can take a break every now and then, but we eventually we have to face the heat.

Letterbox surprises

In all my life, probably three people have written to me. Probably.
But's it's always great to receive post - I get excited even when I get a bill to my name, though the feelings change considerably depending on what's the figure in the envelope.

Last week, I wrote to a friend studying in another country. I just felt really overwhelmed and I knew that the only release would be to pen it down. Sure, I could have called her but international calls are really expensive to broke students in a gap year. Facebook messages are inundated with stupid emoticons with over-stuffed, disturbingly red hearts. Whatsapp JUST doesn't do it right with the blue ticks and the "Online" but not replying status and hey - who is going to type 8 pages worth of information on a tiny screen? I would probably dismiss it as a forward and not check it for months.

So, I sat down, found a half-used Sociology notebook and wrote. Simply spilled words, pausing, crossing out things, re-writing, editing and heaving a sigh of relief when I finished. It felt like a load had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt wonderfully empty and at at the same, I felt comforted that I still had words to express myself. For really, in this age of sophisticated communication, my education and my habits have reduced me to a blubber who fumbles for the right words when it comes to anything longer than 160 characters. I had great difficulty writing my application and scholarship letters, often turning to Google, searching for the right synonyms of words to sound a tad bit smarter. On the other hand, knowing I was writing to a dear old trusted friend, the words came more easily. I put thought into what I wanted to say and how I wanted it to come across. When did I do that last while typing a Whatsapp message? Those annoying blue ticks that symbolize that your message was read, the "online" status of the other person in the chat - these things put an unnecessary compulsion to reply immediately and so often, you regret a message sent halfheartedly.

I don't deny the benefits of Whatsapp / text message / mail. However, they are so instantaneous, they've taken the drama out of communication. So, I have decided to utilize this month to write letters to people. People I speak to on a daily basis, occasionally, people I speak to only on their birthdays, people I spoke to a decade back - it doesn't matter. I want to reach out. I want to write some random thing on a pretty piece of stationery, staining and indenting my fingers with the ink of a fountain pen, just putting my thoughts down, listening to some Bastille/ Mumford & Sons / Eric Clapton, sip coffee in my over-sized Disney mug ; and ultimately give a friend this old-fashioned experience. So much joy!

Today morning, I posted a status to that effect on Facebook.

"Do you know how wonderful it feels to get something in your letter box, that is not a bill or some promotional pamphlet? So,in an attempt to better utilise my brain and time, I've decided to write letters to people. If you'd like a handwritten note from me wherever you are in the world(I mean WHEREVER), I'll write you a letter this month. Inbox/whatsapp me your complete postal address." 

I had 13 messages in the first 45 minutes. Many people were confused - "Where will you post the letters?", some creeped out - "what will you write, exactly? we haven't spoken in months!", some messaged with trepidation - "Hey, will you really message me?". But they were all eager, supplementing their address, often so excited that they missed out on postal codes or landmarks. This enthusiasm feels good, really, really good.

It's upto me now. I'm going to stock up on the paper and ink. And every night, I'm going to devote at least half an hour so a friend somewhere in the world feels good. I don't know how long I can keep up with this. Maybe two letters both ways? Maybe more. Hopefully, more. I have received 16 messages so far and there are a few other friends I definitely would like to write to. I'm not sure how many people will reply - considering that someone actually asked me what is the procedure of sending letters. Oh well. One must keep faith.
I'm also thinking of documenting these letters. Maybe scanning and keeping a digital copy, for permanent memory's sake?
It's exciting. A Letterbox project. 

Until then.

:)

Food talk

On the whole,I would say that Indian restaurants have done more to shame the joy of Indian cuisine than to promote it. While I hold the restaurants abroad for giving 'desi bhojan' a bad name, restaurants here are no good either. 

What initiates this monologue is a flashback from the recently released movie Queen,where Kangana Ranaut says that the pasta made by the enthusiastic Italiano lacks the punch, and the rather offended Chef goes on to say that Indian food is nothing but spicy. This projection is true and frankly offensive to me. Ask any person in the world to describe Indian food and 'spicy'/'hot' are guaranteed to be in the response.

It's a fallacy to confuse spices with spicy. I blame the 'exotic Indian restaurants' for this. The vastness of the Indian sub-continent facilitates the growth of the absolute crux of Indian food : spices. Yes,this includes chillies in all it's glorious,fiery splendour. However,it's also about the spunk of mustard seeds, the woody earthiness of cinnamon, the crunch of tempered cumin, the bitterness of coriander seeds,the subtlety of green cardamom and the almost musky sharpness of black cardamom and star anise. A big, dried bay leaf in a curry and the sourness of kokam. The colour of  bright yellow turmeric and the splatter of curry leaves. Coconut -
fresh,dried,milk -first and second extracts,grated,powdered. Chillies - green,big,finely chopped,slit lengthwise,red,Kashmiri,Degi, for the colour or the tear-inducing kick,powdered or soaked and ground to a fine paste. The depth of dried kasuri methi. The freshness that comes through from even dried mint. The essential topping of dhaniya in anything and everything savoury. Spices are not confined to spicy. It's mellow and mild,earthy and fresh,refreshing and nostalgic of times spent well over a good plate of food.

The cooking medium - ghee, rich. The developed palate for strong mustard oil, scented and heavy. Golden,shining sesame oil. Groundnut, sunflower, rice bran. Olive oil for the modern health conscious urbanite. The glistening Amul butter on Pav Bhaji. The 
dollop of fast melting fresh cream on your aloo paratha.

Where are all these ingredients in our food talk? Why is Indian food seldom about them? Admittedly, it is difficult to find a representative for India's gastronomic face. Biryani? Tandoori chicken/ chicken tikka masala? Aloo jeera? Palak paneer? Nothing can provide a picture clear enough. It's futile, so one mustn't even try.

A typical menu of an Indian restaurant in any city and of any price range features the same old dishes. A look at the vegetarian main course would look something like this :
Palak Paneer
Paneer Makhani
Paneer do Pyaza
Kadhai Paneer
Paneer Tikka Masala
Methi Malai Paneer
... +/- 2 a couple of Paneer dishes and then the menu goes on to become the Atlas Index of cities in India...
Veg Kolhapuri
Veg Hyderabadi
Veg Jaipuri
Veg Kashmiri
Veg Maratha
Veg Patiala
Veg Agra, Veg Bangalore, Veg Calcutta, Veg Dalhousie... You get the point. Same things, different names. There is a dish or two mentioning 'dhingra'( I know no one who would use that term for mushrooms in regular parlance, by the way), an aloo jeera/aloo mutter/aloo gobi, a bhindi and in a place that likes taking the occasional risk, maybe brinjal. I may be making a generalization, but this happens in restaurants which typically boast of these specialities : Indian, Mughlai, South Indian, Punjabi, etc. the extent of India fitted into a 6 page menu.

Understandably, it may not be feasible to sell karela or lauki or arbi or kaddu. Most middle class Indians have the mentality - "jo ghar main mil sakta hai,who bahaar paise deke kyun khaana?" - the why eat ghar ka dal-chawal when you can spend on yummy biryani instead perspective. Maybe, though, maybe we take this thought process in the wrong way. Urban households increasingly rely on quick,easy-to-make regular dishes. This is where restaurants have the market to sell dishes forgotten : Traditionally, home-cooked recipes of curries and wonderfully simmererd daal, fluffy or sticky aromatic rice and rotis that are not the forte of an average woman anymore - either due to their cooking skills ( or lack thereof), paucity of time, apprehension of new food or the ignorance of existing ones. 

Increasingly, our bazaars are flooded with red and green bell peppers, fennel, avocados, artichokes, broccoli and red cabbage. Even in Tier 2 cities and towns, the masses fed on years of Sanjeev Kapoor, recipes in magazines and their travels are aware how these are used in European-style cooking. However, this is creating a mental block that clouds experimenting. Non-indigenous produce could be a brilliant source of contributing to the stagnant culinary 
structure. Vikas Khanna is someone I've been following of late. Not only is he a much needed replacement to Vineet Bhatia on the food show Twist of Taste on FoxTraveller, but he also brings about a wonderful version to recipes from the Indian coast, most of which are unheard of outside the localised region. Incorporating French techniques or making sambar cake in a jar. Sounds ridiculous but interesting. A need for the evolving Indian palates.

I am not completely bashing restaurants that serve Indian food. Some  of them have created landmark dishes in the recent past that are well known - for example, the kathi roll from Nizam Restaurant in Kolkata. Our take on Chinese food, an unabashed and unapologetic take on those who makes copies of everything. China-Made in India. We need restaurants to promote regional cuisines, experiment and create new food and to save face from the stereotype in the global context. Our food is unexplored and it demands attention now.

I realise there are so many more things I want to talk about when it comes to food. Snacks, beverages, desserts. Local foods, non vegetarian, sourcing, chefs. It's a vast alluring array that could become a hotspot of gastronomic wealth with a little effort. It's important for food writers to come out of their critical analysis job description, for restaurants in India to truly become 'specialists', for restaurants based abroad to project Indian food as it really is and for the general man to show up with a stomach for all this.

Something not special

It's been long overdue,and I think I am kidding only myself if I attribute it solely to mental blocks- though they have been around for a while. I've pictured myself doing the blogger.com > New Post thing for a while now, even been encouraged by a friend, but to no avail. All of my posts DO get saved, but only in the dungeons of the Draft section of my mind.

I've been thinking for long on how to come up with the funniest,wittiest,casual but yet oh-so-intelligent write-up I could do. Something with a lot of thought, and yet manages to exude carefree vibes.Something different, new and a revolutionary  thought that will be appreciated by all my million(e) readers. Ok,cut the crap, who am I kidding again?

But I did consider writing a travelogue-ish blog. Still giving it some thought. Rajasthan is kind of inspirational for the average traveler not awed by the Incredible India campaign. AND,it helps that it will be slightly guilt-free on my literary conscience that I can't write regularly. Alas, everyday life is not a getaway.

That brings my thoughts to something else. The obsession with being unique. I feel idiotic about the whole I-need-to-write-an-awesome-something-because-nothing-else-is-acceptable.
I watched Ek Main aur Ekk Tu recently ( shitty movie; brilliant marketing. Don't believe the :well-paid: reviews in the newspaper,unless you are super bored). Imran Khan's shown as this typical too-good-to-be-true-boy (They don't exist btw - this goes out to all the people who love debating on the issues of portrayal of reality in cinema these days :/ ) and there's this scene where he realises that he is "perfectly average". Not too good, and definitely not too bad. Just a really well-blended mixture of both.Well,it's a mockery of neat-freaks and organised people, but my disdain with THAT shall be dealt with later. I liked this concept, though - being perfect and average. Why be good, when you can be both - and kickass overall?

How our society truly loves ostracizing anything not unique! All those inspirational one-liners about being the only one in the world, totally different, "I am what I am" types. A query though - what is wrong with being regular? Not big, not small, but just medium? Of settling into the crowd and being a part of it? Do we really need to stand out and get a spotlight on our head all the time? Would it be wrong to feel nice when you go unnoticed? Is it wrong to want to be a little insane when everyone expects you to be the "one who leaves a mark?" Or,to make a failure and skip one of those "stepping stones to success" just for the heck of it?

You know those Bell Curves we Psychology people love displaying everytime  there is a discussion on the distribution of intelligence amongst the general population? Tap here if you don't know what I mean. The only reason 2% of the genius population are gifted is because there are almost 76% people who are supporting them by being "ok" intelligent. I suppose you could argue with the "Jack of all trades, master of none" theory - but the truth is, it is the Jacks who run the world.

I'm not condemning the idea of being ambitious. In fact, few things are better than you knowing the exact purpose and aim of your life. Neither am I saying you should not stretch beyond your best abilities . Go ahead, surprise yourself! But just because you are not the guy a million people know, doesn't make you any less special. And special is not unique. Special is not being one in a million.  Special is finding contentment in the smaller things. In knowing that a good day is sunshine and rain. That being a full grown adult does not mean staying away from lollipops or balloons or crayons.  That rolling in the mud is in the Top 10 fun-nest things ever ( and the jealousy that your dog can indulge in it and get away with it). Knowing that you'll find someone nice when another someone nice does not like you back. In finding a song you can hum all day into the night and wake up the next morning still singing it. Or looking at the mirror, wolf-whistling at yourself and smiling because you are sexy and you know it.

So be a little you, a little someone else. The world runs on the Indian secret of जुगाड़ : iski topi,uska sar. Imitation is a good form of flattery,really.  Ask China, they've been doing such a fantastic job.
Don't always stand out in the herd, find a squashy well-worn chair, settle in, make yourself comfy. Nothing wrong with it. Feel like you're being Another Brick in the Wall? Big deal, it's a sturdy wall, and sometimes, that is what matters most. Find a mutually weird carbon copy. Maybe, it's about time some of us started being  different by being similar.


"Baanwre se mann ki dekho, baanwri hai baatein
Baanwri si dhadkanein hai,baanwri hai saanse
Baanwri si karvaton se neendiya tu bhaage
Baanwre se nain chaahe
Baanwre jharokhon se baanwre nazaaron ko takna"~ Baanwra Mann from Hazaaro Khwahishein Aisi

Note to self : For a sermon to self, I am rather liberal with certain words. tut tut.

Dusk.

The rains. Sunsets of bleeding colours. The moon in its sudden shared shining glory. Storms. Winds that make a racket as they blow. A sky so perfectly blue with cirrus clouds. Shifting mist in the early morning. There are some weather elements I absolutely adore. Sure,it's always nice to have a sunny,normal day.But it's normal. Just NORMAL.

Imagine you've had a long day. Not necessarily a bad one, but just a tiresome one. And Nature just happens to display one of its beauties. It takes your breath away. It always makes me emotional. Or sentimental (sic).
Makes me sit down and admire the careless but meaningul bounty.

A lot of people have remarked that they find sunsets depressing. I love sunsets. Enough to make me update status' about them followed by hearts or to dedicate entire photo albums to them. Sunsets, especially those that occur just before and after the rains. Dusk has this stange poignant feel to it - a bittersweet mood.

I like nothing better than to sit by my window and look at the sun as it melts into the horizon, behind the buildings dotted with lights. There's serenity in the loudness and chaos of the hues so vivid. You may argue that dawn is the same, but it is not. Dawn somehow seems more restrained. More calm. An introvert aspect of twilight. Picture perfect, yes. But difficult to believe and too idealistic. It is the transition from the dark night that you've already fought and battled.

But dusk? It is a spectrum of emotions, a valence from the comfort of day into the mysterious questionable night. Red, yello, orange, blue, purple,white - all seared in gold and blending into black.

Dusk is beautiful :)

What is contentment? Or a happy life? The summation of your breaths in ecstasy and unadulterated joy?
Maybe not.
Today was an average day.But a good one.Why?

Almost three months since I last wrote.it's not that nothing has happened since June, it's that I had a huge writing block.The sort where you KNOW you want to put across an idea,but it gets stuck somewhere in the rut of your mind. But today, here I am . Again . Suddenly , there are too many words that need to be written , that demand freedom from the unexplored to this virtual page . It is a wonderful feeling . I can't imagine how authors and poets can live survive without it.

What also makes me happy ?  The knowledge of having good friends . A huge comfort knowing what a rarity they are these days . To all the super - wonderful people filling the gaps in my life - I owe you guys one :)

And finally, down to the real reasons :
One - It's important to make peace with your past . I don't know where I read that , but it came to me today when I finally came to terms with people I'd been upset with . People are always important , no matter when or how often or for what reasons they have walked out of your life . When you are given a chance to reconcile , do it , because there's a good thing waiting for both  at the end of it .
Love does not die when two people can't get along anymore . I guess it lives on and gets passed over . Something like the cycle of karma . So if you break up , but if you still wish the best for someone , there aren't     too many tears that will be shed .

Two - Have you ever witnessed a scene so beautiful it breaks you're heart? Makes it ache in a bittersweet way? Made you stop and pull your bike to the side of the road (in an army area, no less ) just to gaze at the wonder of it all ?
I didn't wish for a camera as much as I wished to etch the scene forever in my mind.
Looks like it's going to take a while for me to get over my obsession with sunsets.

Meanwhile , there's a purpose in life again . I don't know what it is , but it's not that aimless . All those opportunities missed in the last few months are not sacrifices , just milestones to refocus on ones more to my liking and capability.
Alas , I am glad there is no manual focus on the viewfinder of this phase of who I am .

You can climb mountains , touch the sky . What next ?
Only time can tell.

" In the midst of movement and chaos , keep stillness inside of you. "
 - Deepak Chopra