Centinary

It’s an interesting thought when you realize that your blog has 99 posts, and that this is going to be your 100th one. The circumstance is even more amazing when you think that I had no less than five blogs at one point of time, but never bothered to go beyond five posts in them at max. I remember opening a technology blog with my friends – a venture that died early. I also remember my very first blog which I had opened back in college days to earn money, watching those stupid ads in Google.

My first serious blog had lasted a month and half. Five posts, if I could remember it right. It was a flawed approach, something that never held my attention for long.

This is what makes the 100th post here special, and close to my heart.

For an impulsive guy, starting a new blog is like getting into a food tasting ceremony – a chore that lasts moments before I jump into something else which befits my mood. So when I started Der Auslander a year back, pushed by Ivy, my friends and other folks, I wasn’t hoping for anything spectacular and continuous. But over time, I have grown immensely fond of this little journal of mine. I believe I have a way of saying things, which might or might not please people, but this is the best I can express. I can vent out here; I can say stuff which is in my mind – and like water flowing in the river my thoughts always flow. The difference is that my thoughts are hardly in one direction. They meander their ways and spread out. But the water carries clogs and dirt too.

So what’s special in this post? Here’s one for starters – I am going to continue maintaining this blog as long as I can. Human beings change immensely with time, and when I’ll have those silver hair and my eyes will start to dim, I will come back to this sanctuary where I have pasted pictures of my dreams to find refuge. Who knows what I might find amongst the countless little pieces I put together here?

But right now, let’s not go into the future. Whatever it holds, I’ll take it as it comes.

I wanted to post a poem here, and this, I believe is the perfect one for the occasion.

Swan Song, from The Garden Of Proserpine, by Algernon Charles Swinburne

We are not sure of sorrow;

And joy was never sure;

To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man’s lure;

And love grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no man lives for ever,

That dead man rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

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