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.
It’s difficult to understand everything, it’s like reading in shadows, fleeting light from the creeks of windows and doors. Life has become interminably incomprehensible, dried and cracked. There are spaces enough to get in and probe yet so hardened that I perish the thought of what’s beyond those cracks.
I have no patience nor energy left to fight and grapple with people, and the world around me. I’m just letting it be- everything. I want to be left alone in peace and not be bothered about.
May be it’s me who is a difficult person or may be not. Whatever may be the case. I still would prefer to be left at it and not be badgered about that. Sometimes, leaving one in peace is enough to settle down the nerves.
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.