Today 'dear' feels out of space. No reasoning whatsoever. Certain aspects of life always remain inexplicable.
Trying to write something out of nothing after a long gap. A lingering pause has settled in between the thoughts and words...
Today, words are hesitant to escape out of their deep chasm. Like humans, they are content being where they are, reluctant to face the world. Often, I find myself relatable to their plight- reveling in the cocoon of known discomfort rather than confronting that dream awaiting my doorstep.
Monochromatic images of memories sail through- some broken, some sewn while some joyful ones too. Over the years, I have accumulated a mammoth baggage of learning- through tiny moments of self-revelation, living in an unending sea of doubt, and uncomfortable circumstances. Here lies the irony- learning never seems to stop and I never cease to make mistakes. The entire process seems endless and forever.
With time, I have learned to enjoy my own company, leaving behind the insecurity of being alone in the crowd. I feel this solitude makes me more of a writer than anything else- a time I get to spend with my thoughts, uninterrupted string of imagination, and freedom to create a world of my own, even if temporary; a suspension of reality or maybe a rendezvous with the real self. You can take it any way you like. I feel it's the conglomeration of both worlds- somewhere in between- a no man's land of sorts. Living in that state has its perks- a private space, no one can intrude.
I resemble that gypsy trapped in the desert's dunes, not knowing where the road shall take her. While I write, the words that flow out are uncertain, they don't know where to pause or how long they need to travel. They halt on their own. The end seems predetermined but variable at the same time.
Hope to start working on a new story very soon- less reflective and more engaging of course. That image of the magician with a hat appears before me: a rabbit emerges, and the audience is dumbstruck. Similarly, I want stories to appear before me from nowhere- if not from the hat, but from my head for sure- the grey cells need some watering.
"One from the bush,
one out of the truce;
the genie rubs the lamp
and the stories appear soon..."
Goodbye for now.
By Nandini Sengupta