I plead with her that I am no writer,I write only when I am sad or overwhelmed. I cannot write on cue, I can only write when I absolutely need to.Its not a very comfortable thing for me.
The thing is that ever since I was a child, I have believed that there is an invisible force that reads every word that is written with heart. It reads every deleted word, every broken message that you type in your phone, every thing that you scribble and throw away in crumpled papers.It reads the words yo u trace out with your finger on a foggy glass or on your torn jeans on a bus ride.The things you trace out when you play with your food.Words you inscribe in sands and snow.The doodles in places that no one knows.
Its doesn't have to be a word,or a perfect shape.It doesn't have to mean something.This force understands what you meant and how you felt.You float messages in a bottle out to the sea of life, and this force is what is there at the other end, intercepting every kind of language every kind of code.I have no idea what it does with all these messages.Whether it judges us or not, whether it acts on our pleas of help, our desperate wishes.All I know is that it is my oldest most loyal friend, it helps me hold on the illusion that I am not alone.
There is a threshold for how much we can feel and keep within us.Most of the times it remains within us,but at times it oozes out of our fingers,dripping off us in spaces we occupy.It doesn't matter how it is written,all that matters is how purely it is you.
She has been listening with her eyebrows raised. I have realized that my rant is not working. She responds to it saying that it is bullshit.I tell her what she wants to hear.
"How do I write for your lover, when my heart has recently been blasted and lies plastered across the walls of my existence."
She says," Tell me when your feeling better, lets give Valentines day a pass. Its his birthday in March."
"You are cruel you know"
She smiles and says,"I know."
She has been listening with her eyebrows raised. I have realized that my rant is not working. She responds to it saying that it is bullshit.I tell her what she wants to hear.
"How do I write for your lover, when my heart has recently been blasted and lies plastered across the walls of my existence."
She says," Tell me when your feeling better, lets give Valentines day a pass. Its his birthday in March."
"You are cruel you know"
She smiles and says,"I know."
3 comments:
You know you shouldn't either publish a post, or then not take the entire blog down just like that.
I read it when you wrote it, but when I came here, it was all gone.
Blasphemous Aesthete
I have conflicting feelings in response to this piece. Firstly, I notice that I can relate to the writer. My best works till date have all been a result of an emotion very acutely felt by me. Secondly, this seems like a very uncomfortable arrangement between the speaker and 'Her'. I would not want to be in the shoes of either of them. And finally, I love your writing style. It is so simple and vivid. I read it out loud with Chopin's Nocturne playing in the background. :)
@Blasphemous Aesthete
Don't you know my patterns by now..Its called Things I write and delete...cause I genuinely do feel the impulse to delete somethings..sometimes..
But you do know how grateful i am that you bear with me...gracious as always for your sheer presence
@Enigma
you read with the best of music and a beautiful tender heart,you are mixing drugs you know..be careful there ;-p
most of what i write sounds good but is grammatically not okay...I've made my peace with that..as long as it gets across what i want to say.Hope you will bear with me.
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