Posts Tagged ‘creation’

 

crazy hopeless reader
Paper listens to me. Talks that never make to fruition, that don’t find an ear, they all lodge in there. So many things that keep hogging my little space of creation, they all end up there. Words that don’t find a good eye, voices that don’t reach a soul, only resound empty in the innate hollows, they all get inked. The meaningful. The meaningless. The general whimsy. The occasional flimsy. Everything goes there.

Sometimes I wonder if I would ever find a reader, or if I have already, will I ever have a glimpse into the world of my sentient admirer, the one who can distinguish each syllable spoken, every letter written distinctively and approve of it to be a magical blend of the extraordinaire. That lover who would hold the genius that lurks in it to a complacent caring heart, and speak volume just like I do with mind-boggling creations of others. Then I am hit by a sudden splash of vexation.

“What if I am not good enough? What if my words weave a mask over my own face to cloud the judgment I give? What if everything that I see is just a lie, and the world really doesn’t give a shit? What if in their menial dictum they have been right all the time? That their crossing me out the millions of times I rose was some sort of poetic justice intended? That what I see is just a feigned globe, and that what they gawk at is aloof from virtual? That I have been wrong all my life? That the beauty I considered beauty was as ugly as a negative vibe? That I shouldn’t have been a dreamer, rather a realist lost in the mundane like a crowd in its din.”

It bothers me sometimes, when I don’t see what others compel me to see. It hurts to know that I am all alone in a world full of people, that it is rare to find a frequency that would walk right by my side. Pretentious heads nauseate me. Lost faces don’t bother me at all. The deficiency of a real connection does. That thread that I have been trying to untangle for so long, I am yet to find its end.

I can’t be like others. I can’t be a shallow prick. If I love, I plunge into the ocean drowning. If I care, I forget myself. If I work, I am conscientious. If I notice, I focus painstakingly at every miniscule detail one is made with. If I live, I refuse to be a bystander rather a meticulous observer to fathom you in a way you have never been. That’s how I have always been. A crazy hopeless reader.

You can put me off as a profound thinker. But I am a poet. That’s how I roll.

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I remember the time I wrote this. Reclining in a not-so-comfy office chair in Chennai. Had plenty of time then, primarily because there was no work, also no one around because of the night shifts I was stuffed into. My mind would occasionally fleet to horizons of introspection and quite frequently to dismay. As I tried to linger on the same old sweet grief from the past of a body I couldn’t put a face to, I fell into the pits of cogitation. I wondered how all this time I was just by myself. Was life supposed to be like this? Am I going to find the one? Do I have someone written for me?

I have this bizarre emotional side to me that I am not that proud of, yet at times I am, probably because it emanates some brilliant streams of thoughts that bring life to a dead page. Read this beauty, drenched in simplicity, that I had penned going into that powerful yet innocent zone of sentience that brought tears to my eyes with its veritable surge. I am asking for my soul-mate to apparate into my life:

You are right there in the corner

I feel your presence.
I know you exist.
Am sure you are there,
Just out of my reach.

You lie in creation.
Without a face, without a body.
Yet I know,
You are right there.

Just within a hand’s reach,
Wish I had longer arms
I would hold you tight
And never let go.

Tired as I am,
To see you in the mist,
Wish I had vision, more clearer,
To see through, what lies yonder.

Wish I had a mouth,
That actually spake,
Every once in a while,
Words that’d bring you to reality.

Aware as I am,
Of your vibes around me,
Wish I could feel your skin
Against mine.

Wish I had that profound a heart
That would sense your presence,
And tell me,
You are around.

Wish I had at least,
Those wary ears
To hear your voice
That would assure me of your arrival.

You are not distant.
Close as you are,
I can sense your scent.
Wish I had better olfaction.

Oh my other half!
My precious reflection!
Wherever you are,
Just find me

Or knit me at least,
A path
That would guide me,
To you.

Tell me!
With words of love
Where do I look,
With these blind eyes?

Or hark with heed,
At my screeching door,
For your chiming bell.
Just tell!

I know you are perfect,
In every dimension,
In every world
Just built for me.

Oh my Yin!
I am empty without you.
Come to me soon!
And resurrect this dead.

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It is so weird how I get so much involved in my life, I rarely get time to do what I love doing the most. Writing is hard. But it also is soothing. It brings me back to awesomeness. It makes me embrace reality. It pinpoints me out from the rest and escalates me to a level I wish to stay forever in.

Writing is hard for me. Just like it has been for Moody from Californication. But my words are just thoughts put into a piece of paper. How hard could that be? English isn’t my mother tongue either. Yet I feel like I have a connection with this language. I must have been deep rooted into this shit. Or maybe I was destined to fall in love with it. Maybe in my eyes it’s much appreesh……!

It turns music when you come into the same frequency as of your thoughts. Then you love your words. You marvel your brain for the beautiful music it creates. You sway to it then. You feel the depth of your words. You feel that twist in your guts. It is beautiful. The sheer knowledge that it emanated from you, fills your bosom with pride.

Ever wondered how impeccably an author describes his characters and gradually fills life into them? You are compelled to put them into your imagination. You create them with your thoughts. They become as real as they get in your head. Every writer is an artist, a creator, who breathes life into inanimate objects.

I am such a big fan of writing. It brings out the best in me. Without it I would be just so ordinary. It excels me in my own eyes. I don’t care what people say. I like being my own judge. My creation brings a smile to my face. That should suffice.

Some story I am, from a book unknown.

I am just so involved, I overlook what makes me. Words. I have been carved with words. My soul was written with words, of some great writer with a simple pen yet with a good heart. For that I will be extremely grateful for the rest of my life.

I have been written and described in a book, just like gazillions of people all across the globe have been penned. We are all stories, our features described, our stories narrated. All we are supposed to do is play our parts and be our writer’s story.

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I have been meaning to write this for so long. I have been watching ‘creation’ closely. How it pleasures me! How it rejuvenates me! How I feel, I have done something meaningful after an act of creation. Don’t we all jump with joy when we ‘create’?

There is something about creation that enthuses us. While we are in the process, it brings smile to our faces. It is one of the most beautiful feelings on this mundane planet. Glad we never run out of reasons to smile.

Just rein your thought-horses for a while and ask this question, “Why do you think we are here?” There’s gotta be something, that someone wants of us. We are placed deliberately like pawns in a board of chess. We are supposed to move as our master commands. We must follow something. Also our movements are confined. We can’t barge like a rook or gallop like a knight. We are being watched. We can’t escape the chess-pod. There is nothing out there, just death!

What if there is no master up there? What if nobody is playing us? Are we bereft? Are we dropped just because our superiors wish to see us how we behave, without a fixed purpose?

There has to be something remarkable and useful that we are supposed to do. We have been conferred all those Lego blocks (here matter) that we are supposed to play with, who knows what for, could be just to impress our FATHER.

Okay, carrying out a proper introspection of ourselves, we gather the following facts. Here I’ll quickly rant about some of the major body parts meant to incite creation.

  • We have been given hands. Alright! Bam! That’s for creation. Let us use them to build, create and adorn new things.
  • Then there are eyes, which could definitely be meant for perceiving our creation and of course marvel.
  • Ears and mouth would aid a team to communicate while they create, so they share work and eschew burdens.
  • Legs are accorded so that we could move and create things at different locations all across the globe. Just imagine, without legs, how our compilations would pile up and we would fail to acknowledge creation of others.
  • A brain full of thoughts permeates us, so that we never run out of ideas. So far, we have been successful in thinking every possible thought there is. Our ideas will never cease to exist. Our still waters still run deep.
  • Nose to inhale the invigorating fragrance of our artifacts. Also to breathe wonderful aroma of nature’s creation. Don’t we love inhaling the awesome scent of food getting cooked?
  • The act of savoring our creation is taken care of by our rapacious tongue. Let us chew our food properly with our teeth to extract the gist from a morsel and then relish it with the bounty hunter.

If we are here, I am sure it is not just for eating, drinking and sleeping. We are bestowed with hands not just for wiping our ass when we are done.

When I give a good look at my activities, I come up with creation at every step. (Remember this! I am mentioning this not coz of vanity but just to slip you an instance.)

I write.
I cook.
I imagine.
I draw.
I animate.
I paint.
I review.
I code.
I earn.
I learn and produce.
I compose.
I rhyme.
I think.
I fantasize.
I doodle.
I picture.

All of the above mentioned activities are dipped in creation. I love doing them all. Even while you read a book, you create instances and make them happen in your thoughts. You imagine them. It is always the first time with you. It is your thought. It is your creation. Your thoughts might come into synchronization with thoughts of others, but they would still remain yours.

We create at every step. Even if you don’t have any talents, you still create ‘events’. Every day, new events happen. None of the events have ever reiterated. If they have, then you have defeated time.

There is a reason why we are here. Whenever I ask myself the question why, I always end up with one and only one solution : CREATION