Tag: writing

Back to Masters

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.

©connecting_nicky

Angst

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.

Know me, yet?

I don’t like to be figured out. What’s the point then. I’ll be like any other woman walking down the street.

I’m not mundane. I’m not what you will ever be able to define.

And, I’m definitely not you will be able to hold.

I’m a torrent of wave that would sweep you off the shore and reshape your world.