The Writer's Block

‘Tonight, I shall dine in hell’ he said with conviction as he drew apart the curtains. Another long summer day… long enough to derive some useful work of expression. However the past few weeks were spent in tossing and moaning in bed all afternoon, caffeine and music at nights and a bunch of complaining neighbors the very next morning. Raoul didn’t seem to get past the first chapter he’d written; often wondering if that too should be deleted. Today he decided to approach his thought processing a little differently.

            For an hour he tidied up his ‘shrine’; a cozy corner desk facing his French windows. He decided to clean a bit around it just in case during a trail of awesome words, his eyes would fall on clutter. Midway arranging the snacks he’d need for inspiration, he glanced out the window and saw her. Across his loft, the morbid households were allocated, but suddenly they didn’t seem so anymore. Her open white curtains brought the glow to the tall wall of congested windows. He’d probably never seen her, and no amount of tracing back brought that ‘something’ that she carried. Raoul slid into his ebony chair while she sat on a wooden stool, legs dangling and hand positioned at her neck. She was examining the canvas in front of her, brush in the other hand. She looked like a prefect picture of ease and passion and yet her lips twitched with dissatisfaction. The more he looked at her, the more words he found to describe her every move, even when she did nothing more than brush back her hair. ‘She is it’ he mouthed slowly running his cold fingers across the keys of the typewriter.

‘She is my muse’. With a smile struggling to spread all over his face, he pulled his chair up close and started typing away to glory. He wrote nothing of her, but every word was connected with the thoughts she invoked. He occasionally applauded himself, and when his thoughts were losing momentum, one look her careless grace put him back on track. He didn’t know why he found himself waking up at twilight, lightheaded and fingers sore.

‘As if one can fall asleep of thinking too much’ he muttered to himself and he fixed his glasses. Her curtains were closed now with soft yellow light peeping and her easel was kept half against the window. But, behind it he could see her twirl around in a flowing dress, ladle in hand. He presumed that she was cooking her dinner. Raoul sighed happily and flipped on the switches to the unexpected sight on the floor. He couldn’t believe it. 

Read the next page! Click here!

Letter of Promise

Dear God,

(If you’re choosing to drop in on these thoughts of mine)

I've grown up and I know you've made this world where things can never be the same as it was even a minute ago. So I guess a matter of years is forever out of the question. Yet, I can’t help going back to the times I didn't cherished when it was present and can’t stop the train of thoughts that follow. Tonight I’m revisiting them again, for totally another reason.

          I’m not dwelling on broken memories so you can switch over to another person who really needs you and stuff; but if you’d listen I’d appreciate. There was this one person who opened this world out to me. My eyes were open to see, but it wasn't until he came that I realized I can do something to change it, to live in it, and make it flow through me. He came like a guardian angel, and although I was too young to understand the gravity of the tough situation we were in, I think I smiled a wee bit often because of that person. He taught me to color within the lines, in uniform strokes…to set the table in a manner that we all can reach the dishes. His hands held me firmly as he taught me how to float on water, and how to tell little lies so that mommy won’t know her birthday gift. He’d sing me to sleep at times and because I like being carried on his shoulders, I’d pretend to be asleep after a long drive home.

But just like that when I had thought my learning days were through and when I was yearning to show what I can do with what he taught, he vanished out of my world built on his words. Growing up I realized his lessons went further than coloring and swimming. He taught me patience, trust, compassion and love. I kept going back to those random memories year after year for 12 years now but it has struck me only tonight. I want to be young again like everyone else, but not so that I won’t have anything to worry about. Not so that I can eat all the pastries without worrying about the dresses in my closet. I want to be young again for him to be back in my life.  Because, his shadow was never there like I hoped it to be when I grew to his height.  Because, when I expressed in words and everyone found an author in me, he wasn't there to be proud. And at mommy’s birthdays I am clueless without asking you first what our grand plan would be.  Somehow I coped well, and other guardian angels kept passing by on me…checking if I was living my dream.  And now and then in little ways, I do remember him and remind myself that he belongs fully to my past. He was my glorious past and nothing more. You see, he belonged to that category of people that come ‘for a reason’. And that was to make me believe that I too was capable of my dreams. He was also someone I looked up to, not because he was towering tall but because at that moment in life, he was the father I never had.

P.S- If you did listen to it all; send this to him. He claims I don’t remember him at all when the truth is he never remembered himself saying ‘I’ll always be there, I promise’

Love, (to everyone who seem to think there’s never enough love in their world)

Priya

               

Song of the Sparrow

There  are a few ironies in life,
but no number of explanations would suffice,
to the impulsion of this heart of mine,
for it's an irony on its own, a witch's shrine.

My heart is a great witness to white crimes,
the ones you hope will get lost in the chimes of time,
and though the waning moon casts no shadow,
you speak gently of his days, the song of a sparrow

He sings of your faltering straight face,
of the reluctant hopes you encase,
of your tearful eye as you walk away,
from my smiling mirage, blocking your way. 

Says you've resorted to restrains,
with fading façades at that,
to lock me out in the pouring rain,
from your won tears of guilt in vain.

While he sings all this, so does he scream as well
Of the future memories of a living hell,
I'd abide to the dramatic show,
Where you alone know which strings set me free.

See, my hearts a simpleton,
It never knows what must be done.
Yet it sings the song of the sparrow,
The one you taught, to induce sweet sorrow.

Detachment- A trait

Some are of the opinion that any creative process, requires a certain skill for the result to be truly unique. Others deny that skill, and hold with the thought that having it ruins one's style. So what is this certain skill we speak of? Detachment. Whether or not it is a skill is a matter of perspective.

Detachment is to remain devoid of assumptions and ownership when looking at something. In our case lets consider that it means to keep your emotions away from the piece we write. Why do we say it helps? In some genres, it is well required to be unbiased and look at the content from various perspectives, like writing for the mass. Being detached helps you see beyond your own appreciation to find flaws. Maybe if 1 out of 5 articles has something different  to offer, it fetches you more readers and gives you the versatile title. It might even make you a pro. But here's the catch.

What if, your unique style is the main reason you're a good writer? What if people come to read your style and not what comes out of being detached? Then that would be a problem yes, because your signature style isn't something to be cultivated, its what defines you. Throwing it away for a few more readers is a decision we have to make before we get into the skill. Because when we start practising it too much, all you can see is the objectiveness. Like how an efficient editor can't involve himself in a movie because he's too busy counting the cuts and unveiling the effects, we lose the essence of natural emotions and can only put in what we used to feel.

So we've come back to square one, how to use the skill without loosing ourselves to it and is it necessary in the first place when you know you have a small target group? Detachment, a trait of a good writer or no?

Robbed Emotions

I want to tear out the voice inside,
Bring into light those screams that hide,
In the deepest depths of a forgotten mind,
Lies scattered thoughts, that I hope to find.

I realize I hope far too much,
But wait around and no nothing as such,
To awaken that passion that frames me,
Into this unqiue person for the world to see.

Maybe it has to do with my decisions,
To cast out the past and reoccuring delusions
In 'hope' for a sorrow free life, I chose,
And ended up removing that part of me that everyone knows.

Yes, its true for I haven't written in a while,
Because my emotions have been thrust into exile,
And with them robbed, I feel no more,
The things that inspired me to write before.

So it all comes down to this,
And truth hurts, thats how it always is,
Without my depression I am no one,
And if this I choose, the days I write are done.  

Every Waking Dream

When little Ani opened her eyes, the sunlight bathed her pastel blue room in warm tones.

‘Wake up sleepy eyes’ Ani stretched like a cat within her covers and blinked. Her father was by her side like every other time urging her to start her day. He had salt and pepper cropped hair, a loose T-shirt and a wide smile that made his eyes shine.

‘Good morning Papa’ Ani slipped out of bed and into her slippers making a bee line for the staircase.

‘Uh-uh… not so fast. Go brush your teeth” Ani slowly turned her head back scowled and dragged herself into her bathroom.  This scene played back every-day and though she knew well, she still attempted different. After getting ready she skipped down to the kitchen where the delicious smell of pancakes wafted towards her.

‘Pancakes!’Ani squealed throughout the time that she climbed up a chair to the cupboards and hunted out the maple syrup. Her father watched her with awe.

‘Yes, it’s Sunday. So pancakes for my hungry monster!’ Ani chuckled as she made faces pretending to be a zombie. 

‘Are we going fishing today again?’ she asked once they were halfway through breakfast.  She crossed her feet under the table, because her hands were busy, hoping he’s say no. She drew a breath, of course he’ll say yes.

‘Yes Ani, Uncle Gary loves to see you  at least once a week. And why don’t you try, you might turn out to be a really good catcher.’ He nodded towards her plate and Ani resumed her breakfast.

It was like every other Sunday. Uncle Gary bought her crayons and blank sheets of paper which she optimally utilized while they fished at the pond behind Gary’s house. After that they packed luncheons and the whole family made it to their private creek. Now this part, Ani liked. The smell of barbeque while the sun set, wading in the shallow bed and collecting pebbles… it nourished her for the next week. Finally they all sat around the campfire and talked for hours. Ani huddled into her father’s jacket listening to her cousins stories about high school. It seemed scary. Later on they’d say their goodbyes and her father would ride her back home in the big jeep.

‘How did you like the day, Ani?’ he asked.

‘Boring… Why can’t we go elsewhere on Sundays?’  She hid the part about the creek.

‘Because, these memories matter. I want you to look back on these days and realize that Sundays couldn’t have gotten better.’ Ani pondered over his words the entire way back. She did like some fragments about the day, but she didn’t see how it mattered.

She was still thinking of it while he tucked her in bed. The moon hung outside, and a fake on inside as well.

‘Don’t think too much.’

‘Are you saying that Sundays in the future will not be the same?’ asked Ani bewildered. Her father laughed.

‘Of course, times change. But you don’t need to worry anything for a while. Now; my little princess, close your eyes. It’ll be a better day tomorrow’ he said as Ani closed her eyes slowly.

The minute little Ani did, Aniston opened her eyes wide awake in her white walled room and drew a deep breath. She was not little anymore. And it was not Sunday. She did understand now what he meant by times changing. Oh well, it changed enough to take her happy life and turn it all around. But it was true about the memories of that one Sunday. She held onto it every time she needed hope which came in the form of her father. Every time she closed her eyes for the night, in-between her busy days, she had the same waking dream, urging her to start with the next busy day.  As she headed out of the house grabbing the keys to her anytime-breakable car,  she paused to look at the frames. ‘Memories become waking dreams dad, I get it now’. And she exited.

The Grand Finale

Looks like the grand finale is around the corner and the spectators are mildly aware of the scenario. Sony PIX seems to be big on the event and is broadcasting 2012 movie on the 21-12-12 at 12:00 am.  NASA reports that if not the end of the world, due to Nibiru, a black out from 21^st to the 24^th December 2012 is assured. And furthermore, 17^th December; that is today is said to experience no night. Which simply means; we’ll be witnessing sunshine for 24 hours. Is all this inevitable? Most probably so. But what if it is just a matter of time? What are we going to do with our last few days and hours on earth?

The telephone lines are bound to be down, and electricity is a doubt; so calling loved ones is not an option. And if we are faced with the END, wouldn’t you want to make sure that your messages are expressed to the people important to you? It would also be the best time to talk it out, sort out differences and leave with closure. But most of all, we need to be prepared. Not in the way like charge your batteries, fortify your catastrophe cellar and backup your energy with canned foods. More like be prepared for the fall, and brace yourself in case it might just happen.

I, for example, am hoping to get an iota of the action and be a part of the survival, just so that I have something adventurous to say about my life when I grow old. To be a part of history, (if life exists after it), and make a heroic bibliography. Nothing big, maybe a flood or earthquake, whatever fate deems fit. When I voice out this agenda, my mom says it’s better to be a part and die than to stay and have one or both legs taken away or my eyesight blocked for eternity. That makes sense. And there’s no point in fasting and praying that it does not end. Because if it is meant to be, it will be.

Renewal is a part of life. We see it in nature, when the snakes shed; we see the forests burnt down to give better growth. So why can’t earth do something for herself after all those years of destruction we’ve caused it. It’s almost similar to formatting the PC. Sorry for the comparison; and it is pretty sure that life will begin again, and when we see ourselves in comparison with the entire universe, our life is not even molecular. Even after seeing the bigger picture behind the predictions, man is man himself and does not pause to think about nature. Bank statements, new customer policies, product launches and movie openings are arranged and decked for another year ahead. So why should nature pause to think about us, the greedy pigs?

The point I’m trying to bring home is that, the end or not, brace yourself for it. Say goodbyes, take a moment to look through the materials and stick by your loved ones on the destined day. The grand finale inches closer and even though it might not happen it’s good to say we’ve lived in that time, signed our name and moved on into the future.