Writing Unregretful

Only when we have sought it out can we write what is true.

The only time we can write without regret is when we've isolated and reevaluated the impressions we initially construed. Brain waves, if you imagine, are as powerful and loud as thunder and lightning. Writing is a habit of confining the thuds in a quiet zone, where you can have armors dismantled to see what's inside, to hush all that loudness and contemplate it, and then resurrect that sound in writing form.

History was never a matter of reporting the facts and telling the story as-is. Historians have already pre-pondered upon how to weave or treat the fabric of time, distinguish love from infatuation, differentiate a shallow disturbance from a genuine dilemma, and generally account for how an event or a person should be remembered. In looking at what happened in the past, we should be able to explain what we are now. Now that's what's going to happen.



I will not regret what I am about to write now.

If I told this story as-is it would have come out all gooey and chummy like all the parents gushing over their babies. Or maybe even worse. See, I'm more sappy than all the blossoms combined in the garden.

Only that I will not regret writing this now because in the future - I will say it very rarely, if at all, and probably restraining myself at all times. Like my own parents before - this is something that is meant to be demonstrated as opposed to being said.

But you've got to at least say it once, before you may never be able to say it again. We love you, I.

You are your parents' inequitable joy. You're only between 11-12 pounds and around 63 cm in length right now, but you won't be like that for long. Quicker than our heartbeats, you'll grow up and we won't be able to carry you as we do now - like a feather in our arms. Soon enough we we won't be able to hush you too easily when you wail out loud with those quivering lips.

So here we are, in the fifty-fifth day of watching you grow with an out-of-this-world bliss that's countless and unquantifiable. Your mother, quite literally, has never left you, breastfeeding you exclusively and giving you the kind of love that's even more beautiful than romance.

Only in a few months time, you won't be as small. In a year's time, you'll stand on your own. In a few years time, we may not even have the time to write as we busy ourselves with parenting.

The world spins and every thing's transforming and moving so fast so let's remember how it is now. However life transpires, know this: you are our son and will not love you any less than how much we love you now.

However this story goes, we will be home bound.