I want to write, scribble few thoughts And spill those feelings tied in knots and loops of oblivion On a sheet that has seen and lived and breathed the words … Continue reading The Words That Once Were There
Every piece of writing by all those profound writers influence me.
For a while I slip into a stupor, drunk in their words, the meaning of life in between their sentences- and it’s a wonderful feeling to live the lives they create and weave in between the printed words one after the another.
The social and cultural milieu a writer belongs to reflects in the fabric of their prose. It’s beautiful, it’s like minuscule architectural beauties embedded in a huge structure.
I’m taking a break from all the web readings for a while and go back to the roots where I begin my life, ghosh, Woolf, Marquez, Conrad, Bronte, Eliot… those are the concrete pillars I hold onto whenever I feel myself losing to the insanity of the world around me.
My heart wanders on nameless streets knocking at nameless doors for no reasons at all…
May be, somewhere a door will open and let me in. Would there be a place where my heart will feel like home once again…
For once, I wish to close my eyes and relax.
Put my mind to rest.
Those nameless desires.