What is more distant that distance, the purpose of poetry and the meaning of metaphor? What is this sentence? It sounds, as the urban chic, my friends from yesterday would call it, "loaded." The last time I visited this notebook, I was few pounds lesser and some clouds higher. I wore off, sedated in the natural course of hard work and seduced by discerning charm. Like automated display boards which one cannot shun, other fellow maestros emerged. Their bright confidence swallowed my already dim one, their popularity slapped on me one sharp insulting wave after the other, and before I knew, I was caught in a deceptive whirlpool of fireflies, I had taken for fantasy.
These days the thick tubes and sharp needles don't hurt. Sleep does. Do you feel the vacuum engulf you? No medicines ever succeed to put me to slumber before I have chanced a meeting with the concrete emptiness. It is more mysterious than a magnetic force, and lesser demanding too. They try and tell me that I could be fine, that I should try, that I have a fabulous life waiting upon me. Sometimes I wonder if they are faking such conviction and such promises, merely to be true to their work. I remain wilted -- what was that writer-ly phrase -- "wisp of smoke," yes.
Do you sometimes feel that you could belong to a cinema, with the perfection of a love or a tragic story taking beautiful care of you, just as much affectionate care was taken to drape you in the skirt you flaunted in rhythm with love. I wish I belonged to the roll of reel, frozen in a cyclic celebration, each lip-shade in sync with the emotion, without my having to take care of it. When I sit in the cold washroom, which does not even have a magazine rack, I like to believe I am part of a cinema, unfolding everyday with an audience awaiting to marvel upon my mediocrity. I suffer from it. I also suffer from a lack of ambition. How I wish the swing would stop suspended at either end of my wish, there would be a rain of confetti and the regular applause would make the scene extraordinary.
The cinema is so distant, indeed. Like distance, and the purpose of poetry and the meaning of metaphor. Loaded, is that what you are calling it? I had carefully intended chaos for the unwitting mind. Is that not how writers born? They build dreams and then those dreams begin breathing. Breathe in, breathe out -- how many times I have heard it. Each time to ask myself back, why am I hearing it. I am the song of the earth, the flight of the soul.
I essay your shadow.
"And finally, I am pleased to call Miss Gaatha Purohit on the stage please" the sound-box boomed. Gaatha did not win the top three slots for best writing. She walked up, a little dazed. "Her piece, On How a Mad Woman Would Perhaps Write deserves a special award for..." the rounds of applause dissolved the word. They spoke about how fearlessly disintegrated her writing was. Later, she was informed that the jury were 'scared' reading it. As she stroked her trophy, Gaatha was still beaming. She could hear the thundering applause and the deafening admiration. They did not sound from a distant past at all.
These days the thick tubes and sharp needles don't hurt. Sleep does. Do you feel the vacuum engulf you? No medicines ever succeed to put me to slumber before I have chanced a meeting with the concrete emptiness. It is more mysterious than a magnetic force, and lesser demanding too. They try and tell me that I could be fine, that I should try, that I have a fabulous life waiting upon me. Sometimes I wonder if they are faking such conviction and such promises, merely to be true to their work. I remain wilted -- what was that writer-ly phrase -- "wisp of smoke," yes.
Do you sometimes feel that you could belong to a cinema, with the perfection of a love or a tragic story taking beautiful care of you, just as much affectionate care was taken to drape you in the skirt you flaunted in rhythm with love. I wish I belonged to the roll of reel, frozen in a cyclic celebration, each lip-shade in sync with the emotion, without my having to take care of it. When I sit in the cold washroom, which does not even have a magazine rack, I like to believe I am part of a cinema, unfolding everyday with an audience awaiting to marvel upon my mediocrity. I suffer from it. I also suffer from a lack of ambition. How I wish the swing would stop suspended at either end of my wish, there would be a rain of confetti and the regular applause would make the scene extraordinary.
The cinema is so distant, indeed. Like distance, and the purpose of poetry and the meaning of metaphor. Loaded, is that what you are calling it? I had carefully intended chaos for the unwitting mind. Is that not how writers born? They build dreams and then those dreams begin breathing. Breathe in, breathe out -- how many times I have heard it. Each time to ask myself back, why am I hearing it. I am the song of the earth, the flight of the soul.
I essay your shadow.
"And finally, I am pleased to call Miss Gaatha Purohit on the stage please" the sound-box boomed. Gaatha did not win the top three slots for best writing. She walked up, a little dazed. "Her piece, On How a Mad Woman Would Perhaps Write deserves a special award for..." the rounds of applause dissolved the word. They spoke about how fearlessly disintegrated her writing was. Later, she was informed that the jury were 'scared' reading it. As she stroked her trophy, Gaatha was still beaming. She could hear the thundering applause and the deafening admiration. They did not sound from a distant past at all.
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