Posts Tagged ‘words’

Image of a dreamer who wishes to create his own story

The Dreamer

We are made up of stories. Each cell in our body is carved by our own action. Every thought in our head is moulded with experience. We become what we do. We are helmed on the anvils of our surroundings. Others in our lives hammer us into an ineffable contour. We bend, we twist and we cringe. That’s all we do. Stories we become. Millions of stories that form with every fraction of breath we inhale. A walking, talking embodiment of gazillions of tales.

  1. It becomes impactful when some wander out of their written page and append to their own story. They become the real dreamers, who abhor the stagnant of the life. They like to go out and explore. They defy those sledgehammers, and stand against the world if challenged. They work, and work in pang to bring stories in their heads to fruition. They stay in control, hate to be controlled. They have their own ink to pen the poetry of their life. To embellish their words with a vocabulary of their taking.
  2. Then there is the rest whole lot, who wait like shriveled pages for pens to wet them. They want others to happen to them, and wait with sanguine eyes for words to enter their lives. They always choose preordained slots meant to herd them into queues, and never question why. They let the world pass them by in their sheer torpor. They are left to the mercy of everything around them. They do nothing. They let nothing do them.

Those are the two kinds of people we are. That’s all there is to it. We are stories. Now it is up to us to choose our kind.

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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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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.

My words are precious. I don’t wish to waste my words on someone I am willing to forget.

That being said, I wouldn’t bring people who don’t matter to me into the picture ever. (Like I ever did……wait, what? I would do that subtly many times but I wouldn’t pin point them, right? right?)

I would love to do an introspection every now and then. It would help me realize what changes I went through over a span. Today when I peruse myself carefully, I am stupefied to find out the result. I am a changed man. I have changed horribly, to the extent that I don’t recognize myself anymore.

Few days ago, I was blunt, carefree and awesome. Now I hate myself. People hate me for what I have become and it is all justified. I wish I could change that. I have been roped into an image I used to abominate.

I had self-respect. Now I have none. Nowadays I take it. Earlier I had this ‘Fuck-the-World’ attitude. Now I have become less reckless. I have started caring for people more. I don’t want that though. It binds me in a cuff and smothers me every minute.

Sometimes people do that to you. Sometimes circumstances. My case isn’t the latter. I have been manipulated by my brain gazillions of times. My heart supplements that bastard. I comply like a robot even if there is one percent chance of a happy ending. I relate to Ted Mosby, of How I Met your Mother, a lot in that department. In the process, I have hurt myself a thousand times.

I would always end up trying to satiate my heart. I am so delicate in that area. It seems I have a hole there, waiting to be filled by a serum only my other half retains. The pain is so acute, that it makes me desperate for the real ‘her’. In acts of desperation, I end up making formidable moves and taking wrong decisions.

The reason I allow myself to be manipulated is exactly what this maxim paints – “Things you do for love“. Then again, I realize, and I am well aware of, my reluctance to hurt a living thing. I could be blunt, arrogant and carefree once again. But the question is, at what cost?

I appreciate things around me. I concentrate on the good. I overlook patches. This helps me perceive beauty in everything. I would rather be happy with a glass half full than waste my time sulking about its emptiness. The precise reason why I fall in love with good qualities and overlook bitterness. But unfortunately people take my love as my weakness and exploit me like a slave, whilst I obey considering them my masters. Upsetting them would mean losing them. I don’t like that. I wouldn’t want that. But if I don’t, then I wouldn’t be free.

I have to take a stand now. I have to take chances. I have to trust my guts and do what is best for me. For once, I have to be selfish. If I don’t, I would be taken for granted.

I have downgraded myself so much today that I have to look up from this pit, I am in. I wish, for once I shut down my emotional warehouse and take flat decisions. Decisions that are going to hurt people, and me of course, yet effective enough to save lives in the process.

I am way over my past. I am glad about that. Yet I haven’t forgotten her completely. I wouldn’t want her to fade ever. I am well aware that we are together somewhere in a parallel universe. That feeling is beautiful. Those special moments we spent together in this life, I lived all of ‘that’, just like she did, and I am a proud owner of my memories. No one can change that. Not even you, my readers! Your trial would be my denial.

Some might say, I am in love with the idea of love as Karen, Hank Moody’s wife in Californication quoted. Even I would feel helpless explaining that, just like Hank felt, to a person who doesn’t comprehend love at all. I am glad I have been blessed with the ability to sense, feel and love. It escalates me to a level, safe and sound, and of course, well above the ’emotionless’.