Everything is same. Everything. Man. Book. Galaxy. Want. Snake. Your gaze at this piece of writing. The pen in my hand. Your wrinkled brow. My Kafkaesque writing. All. All, I say. It only changes form. The hump of a camel is my Adam’s apple. My protest poetry is nature’s anxiety. The colour of my used chappals is words coming out of an egoist. The air between cold rice particles is trapped history.
Everything, everything is placed at two opposite ends of a spectrum. And yet is conjoined. In such a way that they are stuck forever. Stuck like soil on roots. Darkness with the colour black. Me with writing. Words with tenor. And with every passing day the grip is only getting firmer. Defined. Heavy. Like the continuation in life that floats without gravitational force. Yet everything is under control. Like, more than four meanings hanging on to a 4-letter word. Each having an existence of its own. Every meaning, in the context that it is used, becomes alive while the others wait for their turn.
Prose. Paragraphs. Sentences. Words. Letters. Phonetic sounds. I am addicted to them all. Fascinated how they play in front of me. Quite in contrast to what they make me think- that I am playing with them. They jump, roll, rotate, sleep, dream and awaken within me. As if I am indebted to rear them till my last breath. Disciplining and evolving them every passing day. Trying to craft them into a piercing lead of a sharpened pencil. Afraid at the same time, that its sharpness will taste blood, which I hope, is only mine.
Everything, everything is placed at two opposite ends of a spectrum. And yet is conjoined. In such a way that they are stuck forever. Stuck like soil on roots. Darkness with the colour black. Me with writing. Words with tenor. And with every passing day the grip is only getting firmer. Defined. Heavy. Like the continuation in life that floats without gravitational force. Yet everything is under control. Like, more than four meanings hanging on to a 4-letter word. Each having an existence of its own. Every meaning, in the context that it is used, becomes alive while the others wait for their turn.
Prose. Paragraphs. Sentences. Words. Letters. Phonetic sounds. I am addicted to them all. Fascinated how they play in front of me. Quite in contrast to what they make me think- that I am playing with them. They jump, roll, rotate, sleep, dream and awaken within me. As if I am indebted to rear them till my last breath. Disciplining and evolving them every passing day. Trying to craft them into a piercing lead of a sharpened pencil. Afraid at the same time, that its sharpness will taste blood, which I hope, is only mine.
3 comments:
loved the start....and is so very true....everything is so interlinked ya,,that at a point it bcomes difficult to differentiate....
and this happens whn u r so into it,drowned,drenched,and wht nt....
i cant explain may as i m a designer nt wht u r!!!
at a point for me also letters,words,lines,sentences bcum much more than jst as wht they r....
nyways enjoyed reading the blog...u dnt knw wht strings u hv played....
It feels good when you come across people who can connect with your writing on a deeper note. Thanks.
THANX m awaiting for some more of these......
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