WRITING

The seeds had been sown long ago. Hour spent alone in the school library – immersed in other lives, other thoughts, other worlds altogether. The quest for meaning in a sea of confusion. Living via those people was so much easier. Their actions could be justified, thoughts analysed, motivations understood so easily compared to my own complex mess. Moreover, it was a world I inhabited, where I could enter and exit anytime – uninhibited, unnoticed. A shadow roaming the city alone at night, watching the multitude of stories unfold. Interested by curiosity, yet insulated by my being. But the thought that I could stall the copious stream of thoughts and ideas in my mind and create an entire being – a living, breathing story or poem ; that thought I never paid heed to. It was there at the back of my mind, biding its time, maturing with every changing season. One day, I could not resist it anymore. The barrage broke and thoughts became words and words became poetry. All by itself, my mind gave structure to it. Lovingly, with great caution, like a potter making his first clay pot, I nurtured and embellished it. What pleasure I derived from looking at it, only I could experience, feel it throbbing in my pulse. It did not matter what others thought of it. The inkling that it might be influenced by others stopped bothering me. I revelled in the process and the outcome never failed to excite me. Slowly, at my own unhurried pace, I go about writing my thoughts, pouring drops of my life into the inanimate world of paper. Not too much, but enough to spew my venom, to spread my fragrance.