Cold November Rain! not literally

Every time it rains, it pours, very true indeed.
Cold November rain, sigh.
Its raining 'everything' under the roof, literally everything.
Free time, fever, fights, awesome dinners and nights , more money, plenty of travel, some sugar and honey.

Life has never been such a downpour of things, new confusions are splashing down,
joys roar and thunder, more ideas strike like lightening in cold cold November rain.

Misty 'together times limited', relief from the cold rain. Warm soups and warmer homes, life is a potpourri of all this and more.

Cozy welcomes, happy faces and happier voices, changing times and changing roles.
Split between responsibility and will, one cracks you down and other widens the crack, cold rain flooding it with muddy ideas, puddles of restlessness, drops of calm.
Patience my child December says, and cold November rain- here it comes again.

Craptitude : High time I got started on this one

Craptitude : It is high time the word got its due credit.

I stumbled upon the word accidentally, during one of the chat sessions with the someone dear, and we both soared high in the ignorant pride of discovering a new word. Months after we thought that we coined it I happened to search the web for it...and guess what there were no hidden surprises...there already is a word "Craptitude" yes u heard it right.
For your use " http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=craptitude"

But I want to put forward my own meaning here...Its time that this word got its due...cause its not many people who have the ability to survive and enjoy crap. Have you ever made it through the night , just proving to your friends that your craptitude is higher than theirs? If you have then you know exactly what I am referring too. Crap after all is not that bad, lets not attach the American meaning to the word...
Oh Crap, replaced by Oh God...this itself proves how worthy the word is....

Ok now lets start from the beginning, and for me to really start I have to invite the one who discovered it with me and a few of my friends who really know what I am talking about to contribute first.

Sai, Shruti, Minu, Pkd, Aka, Prats, Vandy...does this word exist in your dictionary ?

Times lost and found

Picture picture on the wall, remind me of what I was. An attachment in the email, the email in the inbox, I open it and find a treasure in that past. Treasure of moments lost, faded memories, friends left behind, and all this while I let it be there.
Place changed, displaced old times with new ones and I simply moved on. Then, an unsuccessful attempt to clean up the inbox mess, and everything came back in a flicker,gush of laughter, channel of tears, and my new found love for old lost times, and I realize how you need to open that last door in your heart sometimes and peep in, its all there waiting for you to be re-discovered.

Pen, Ink and my keyboard

Smooth, continuous, fitting perfectly between those edges and complemented by an equally smooth movement, the soft touch on the parchment, and the impressions on the base. That’s the kind of magic that was generated when my ink pen touched the cheap paper of my personal diary, pouring out a succession of un-articulated thoughts, never forcing me to create a logical sequence, still maintaining a desire to be grammatically correct and keep a spell check on language used. Then my fingers touched the keyboard, my mind learnt the pleasures of a word document, spell and grammar check came in handy as the brain cells snoozed off every now and then.
Slowly my small personal world texts started mingling with ASCII coded characters. They got drowned somewhere in the flood of coded messages floating over the entire blog site, entangled in the web of pretentious writings. The unintentional urge to go public, be read and recognized killed the spunk from my thoughts. The lines became crafty and the sheer ingenuity of the work died. Then somewhere down this bloggers lane I hit the truth, the truth about the joy of expression, the virtuality (is that even a word) of number of passerby hits, the artificiality of blogs from others. The scribbling over the blogs sometimes seemed fake, an attempt to a pretentious self-acclaimed well written piece of grammatically poised writing. No doubt there were some original graffiti artists there, just creating art for themselves, but for some part it, the bloggers seemed to be trying too hard to try to impress someone, to create a piece which might not even pertain to their actual life-style. As I walked by this truth the joys of writing returned, I discovered the binary purpose of writing – either you write for yourself or you don’t. I wanted to write again, for myself, for this is the place where I could be totally me, and so I did,only this time I typed.
And as I typed, my keyboard got overworked, the ink went dry and the pen felt neglected. As an after effect, the beautiful hand became ugly, the curvy forms become stout and multidirectional often sliding below the edges, fighting to be balanced and well-spaced. Now I might actually write.