Big Bad World

Morning was great today; waking up to the chirping tunes of the aviators was so refreshing indeed.
Some bad memories of last evening were almost erased with hopes of a better today.
The jog-yog routine was at its ultimate best.
On top of that I had doned my new shirt sent to us by our US manager...

Unexpectedly, I received good help from diametrically opposite me, in a totally skewed time zone; things looked like they were on a roll. And then this chirpy, bubbly image of the near-perfect rosy life was pricked with thorns.
Why do roses have to follow thorns ? It seems that the law of nature needs to get its due credit and respect.
But when thorns prick from close quarters it hurts hard.

Can't help but getting spiritual; it seems to have answers to allqueries that have been pestering mankind since time immemorial. Why are we so selfish ? Why are we so pre-occupied with ourselves so much so as to forget the parts make the whole... I hate whims and fancies; I would rather prefer someone to be openly animos rather than make a false pretense of solidarity and camaraderie...If wishes were horses, Akshay would fly....

Is this a big bad world, fast collapsing under its own weight; under the influence of the unknown entrophy. How else can we attribute victory of the evil and the setbacks suffered by men of virtue.

Here's Robert Frost quoted 'Asking for Roses'

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.