Whims & Fancies

Today, I was just thinking
About everything & nothing
As I usually do.
And I realised that I'm happiest
reading a book,
singing my heart out,
writing down whatever whimsical thing I think of.

But sometimes being happy just isn't enough
There's pressure to make it count
Sure, reading a book's fine,
when I have the time.

But what about singing and writing?
Can I make something of it?
Can I be a writer?
A singer?

Wow! Just the very thought!

It makes sense doesn't it?
If I can make something of it,
I can justify indulging my time & effort in it.
And not feel guilty wasting time that can be better spent
Earning money to make ends meet?

How complicated can life get?
That I feel bad in indulging in such simple pleasures?

I guess I just want things in neat, pretty packages
If I can turn my passion into my occupation,
I'd be tackling my needs & wants with one blow.

Alas! Tis not to be.
For lil old me am but ordinary.
Not unique, not gifted
Just ordinary.

Not a lousy singer,
just not a fantastic one.
Not too bad at writing,
just not good enough to be a writer.

And so, it ended -
- another bout of day dreaming -
as it usually does,
with a painful jolt to reality.