Good morning, bloggers.
To a writer, nothing seems to be more painful than the sight of a pen that is filled with ink, though appears dry. Nothing is more painful than the plight when a writer is out of tune, when words forget him, sentences become blue and thoughts pull up stakes. His world looks like an ennui-tortured mirror.
The he is the I – an observer of passing melancholy.
My corporal framework, as if, is sitting on a chair, talking to my life jutted out on the floor. The frame seems to be as austere as a square interviewer, to whom, life seems too helpless to serve anything. He is seen folding his palms and pleading, “Let me be allowed to make an entry into you.”
I can't count how many yesterdays, todays and tomorrows have I lived and left without writing a single word. Not a single sentence has been indited. I could neither read others' nor could I derive inspiration from my beloved Indibloggers. Something is wrong somewhere. Something has hindered me from reading and writing. Even one of my readers and friends has tried to ignite sparks of writing in me. Thanks to her a little have I met.
My demitasse was filled a little while ago... here, I mustn't say that it is not filled now. I would definitely say, the cup is filled, but this time, with a mysterious emptiness.
In my writing life, I have always felt that sentences are like fountains and words are but the beaming bubbles of experience with truth. Experience with truth can only drive a writer to experiment with truth. Truth is given shape into words. Words are set on a white page like a disciplined regiment of little penguins.
I neither touch toast nor do I drink. At the same time I feel I can't let myself go beyond my barrier. I feel carked if someone drinks in front of me. At the same time I feel thirsty. I feel choked if someone smokes right by my side. At the same time I feel smokes could have known me.
Happy are those feelings that I live with. Happy is my living that I feel about. Let me again fill up my demitasse and wait for a turn to let myself out of this barren land...
To a writer, nothing seems to be more painful than the sight of a pen that is filled with ink, though appears dry. Nothing is more painful than the plight when a writer is out of tune, when words forget him, sentences become blue and thoughts pull up stakes. His world looks like an ennui-tortured mirror.
The he is the I – an observer of passing melancholy.
My corporal framework, as if, is sitting on a chair, talking to my life jutted out on the floor. The frame seems to be as austere as a square interviewer, to whom, life seems too helpless to serve anything. He is seen folding his palms and pleading, “Let me be allowed to make an entry into you.”
I can't count how many yesterdays, todays and tomorrows have I lived and left without writing a single word. Not a single sentence has been indited. I could neither read others' nor could I derive inspiration from my beloved Indibloggers. Something is wrong somewhere. Something has hindered me from reading and writing. Even one of my readers and friends has tried to ignite sparks of writing in me. Thanks to her a little have I met.
My demitasse was filled a little while ago... here, I mustn't say that it is not filled now. I would definitely say, the cup is filled, but this time, with a mysterious emptiness.
In my writing life, I have always felt that sentences are like fountains and words are but the beaming bubbles of experience with truth. Experience with truth can only drive a writer to experiment with truth. Truth is given shape into words. Words are set on a white page like a disciplined regiment of little penguins.
I neither touch toast nor do I drink. At the same time I feel I can't let myself go beyond my barrier. I feel carked if someone drinks in front of me. At the same time I feel thirsty. I feel choked if someone smokes right by my side. At the same time I feel smokes could have known me.
Happy are those feelings that I live with. Happy is my living that I feel about. Let me again fill up my demitasse and wait for a turn to let myself out of this barren land...
6 comments:
Hey long time!I understand that feeling..my fingers itch when I don't write:P
Always a pleasure to read your words.
a subtly penned thought..For a writer, putting his thoughts to paper with pen and ink is as much a necessity as any other vital workings of a day to day life.
I loved some of your points...keep writing :)
sarah
nice... thanks...
What an expression!
Your pain now seems to be our pleasure!
Ask Ruskin Bond how he tackles ‘writer’s block’ and once again Bond’s pokerfaced humour seeps in, as he says, “Yesterday I tore up a paper after writing 20-30 lines of a poem… that’s one cure. I don’t hesitate to tear things up and always keep a paper basket close!”
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