Posts Tagged ‘writer’

The Perpendicular Universe unfinished

Been a while, I haven’t penned anything on these leaves. I have been lost in the humdrum of the mundane. A job that sucks me in, and eats away my precious hours. Takes me away from the world of writing. But these special leaflets are always there. In the backdrop of my head. Silently calling me. Making me feel the void. Trying to make its presence felt. Then life manages to put me in front of the screen somehow, as if the croons of this blog get heard.

I wish to press these leaves with only the best. Maybe that’s what takes a lot of time. To only fill the easel with quality work. My brother had asked me to keep it as a wont, when I am in the right zone. To him it is one of my best collections hitherto, a magnum opus weaved with a keen wisdom. I intend to keep it that way. It lets me unspool myself, the real me, into validation. An introspection of sorts that might reflect the real me to a reader if there is one at all.

Today, I am squeezed into work so much that this blog stays hidden from me. I distribute myself to others, so much that I forget my own identity. But this right here, this, lets me appreciate myself. When I take a step back to look at it, I realize it is nothing but my mirror. It lets me behold the real me. It lets me fathom myself more. Words smeared on these blanks tell me that I am different. It lets me dig deeper into a head of a writer, a poet who is insanely in love with words, with a brain uplifted and a head that reeks of beautiful and sentient thoughts.

What is unfortunate is the fact that he barely has time to cover ‘em all. There is so much beauty yet to read, so many wonderful people yet to encounter, so many experiences yet to experience, so much land yet to cover, so much love yet to shower, so many unknown faces yet to scan, so many enthralling creations yet to marvel at, and there are so many gorgeous thoughts in his skull still embryonic, veiled, that can only unfurl with time. It’s a shame that it’s running out.

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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.

I wish to pen you down. My words always find you, just like my thoughts. I can spend days just thinking, such thoughts of beauty, romance and excellence. They get lost when they don’t find a piece of paper. But you cannot be put on a piece of paper. You are infinite. I cannot confine your wonders.

Sometimes I ponder – Should I be ashamed to write you? Should I wonder who is going to read me? Should I really care about the world? I haven’t really given it a thought. But if I don’t mention you, then my leaflets would dry up, because you are important.

You know that I have fallen for you. Not because I am feeble, but because you are strong. Your essence surprises me. Your eyes draw me. Your voice is like music. Your lips play my favorite songs all the time.

I remember an excerpt from my own oeuvre:

You are the story of my life.

I will pen you with sparkling colors.

You don’t have a name yet. Or may be I don’t like naming you. You are in my dreams already. You are playing with me in that dimension. I can see that. The guy in the mirror is happy and I am happy for him.

But every story is tragic. If there are no stones, I am not walking on the right path. Right? I have got rocks rolling. I am there, yet I am not there. My rivals keep hitting me, and I keep falling to the ground. I simply defend. I don’t take a stand. I don’t have a reason to throw a punch. I don’t know my enemy. I don’t know whom to fight. You haven’t given me a reason to.

I can fight anyone, if you are by my side. But you stand in the center with unsure steps written all over you.

I see the wall, the invisible one. That is the only thing that stops me from you. I can knock it down. But you like it all strong and sturdy. So I keep mum.

Still I will jot you down every now and then. Not because I have to, but because I want to. You make me want to write. You force my thoughts to flow. You put them to words. I am glad that you do, coz writing is something I can’t part with.

I am grateful that you happened because your mere presence gave me thoughts and words. Your existence… your existence simply carves out the better writer in me.