“I dreamt of a poem,
I dreamt of you,
Each of us with our primal poems,
Each held by moist alphabets..”
- Sharmila Ray (With Salt And Brine)
And here comes again, the ripped thoughts, which have reaped
enough to be roped in the Blog.. The ultimatum which was given to the heart by
the mind has been finally ignored... The Securities which were scrutinised to
secure the "Self " has gone on the shelves.. The nerves which were
pretending to be made of steel has ultimately proved to be hollow and
consequently perished...
The writer who was lost somewhere, in the deserts of seperation,
is keen enough to make his marks... To return on the track, to step forward, to
move on to accept the bitter truth and to break the shell he was residing in...
Finally on the verge to break that Mirage...
His journey from one spring to another is next to the remorseful,
yet with a ray of hope that the Spring will be there once again.. And here it
is.. The same spring which was left behind, is on the front, once again to lead
to more heartious journeys, perhaps remarkable ones, this time.. Just as the
Second's hand, it's not going to stop, until it falls in the clutches of time
until it runs out of the enthusiasm to step forward with every breathe, until
it runs out of energy...
From that day onward the wind which used to flow with the floral
aroma, has now changed its course, flowing with the thorny pricks, to sting
with each blow... The decorated gates which used to welcome every thought, has
now become ignorant.. Even the healthiest one has been started to startle.. The
balcony which used to be cheerful, has now gone silent... The bliss has lost
somewhere in the mid oceans.. The thoughtfulness has blurred.. Just to make the
journey more tough...
One day one of his thoughts, which thought of it as a close
companion of the lost writer, knocked on the doors with an intent of being
craved on the pages of his diary.. It
came with all the possible beauty one can showcase.. With all the sweetness and
innocence on its face.. It started to sing in the melodious voice one can be
enriched with... Just to seek his attention.. In which it failed..
Finally, when that thought started to panic the writer, when it
started to devastate him, that clumsy writer picked up his pen and without a
second thought, un-mercilly started to thrust it on the table... Seeing this,
tears started to flow from the eyes of that Thought... And in result a verse of
curse was about to escape its lips..for the one who was responsible for the
condition of his mate...but it couldn't happen as simultaneously something else
jammed it...
“What was it, only that Thought could know.. She hurt him more
than he deserved, Yet he loved her more than she deserved.. How can be one so
cruel and someone such a fool?”
With every second, with every breathe, with every sunlight, those
thoughts started to suppress themselves... And finally started to get perished
with every passing breathe.. There was no one left to admire the beauty of
them... Even in these adverse situations, those cursing verses couldn't escape
their lips.. Why? Maybe because She was the sole reason for those emerging
thoughts...
People who feel pain, that's common. Someone who uses this pain to
create is an Artist..
Thus, the Writer was born from that pain and so were his thoughts.. The pain of
separation..
Even when one day those
unlucky thoughts got lucky enough to be embossed, only thing happened, that
they all got captivated in the Drafts... Yes, they really got carved, but only
to be saved as Draft...
Someday, those crumbling thoughts would definitely crawl, from the
narrowy gaps, to get rewarded, to emerge as a winner... But for now, one more
draft has been saved...
