Monday, 26 December 2016

On Writing.

Words, words, words.

So many of them everywhere.  We try to find meaning in them, to coax our minds and hearts into an endless romance with life, and death, so much so that sometimes the world itself appears to be made of stardust and rainbows.

Alas, life is not so simple.  We are but tiny two-dimensional dots travelling across the fabric of the universe and time.

We attempt to make sense of all that happens, and has happened: our lives are carefully crafted, curated by our fiddlesome memories; we forget, and we remember, and that is life.  In all this, there is no one to judge; who knows your own life better than yourself?

And still we writers dare to put ourselves out onto a yacht we have never been on, to traverse the seven infinite seas in search of destiny (if it may exist), and meaning, and love.  Or a train.  Or a spaceship.  Who knows, maybe someday, we will reach someplace where we find all these things.  Maybe we never will.  Our lives are a tumultous tapestry of constructed, biased longings that we thought were important, once upon a time.  We believe many things; most of them are probably not true.  But we must persevere, for only then will we be free.  Only then can we hope to understand.  We are all imposters, playing our own parts in this circle of life and death, and in search of the great beyond, we lose ourselves until the once-bright sun is but a speck of light at the end of a dark, dark tunnel.  

I do believe, though, that eventually we will be found.  And when that happens, the world will cease spinning, and everything might finally make sense.

~


Tuesday, 20 December 2016

I can't write a poem.

I can’t write a poem tonight,
I went outside and took some pictures,
And my right shoulder is aching.
I can’t write a poem tonight,
My brain is too full: I’d rather
Write something really really (really) long,
So that people know what I’m thinking about—
Not that that’s interesting; who I’m thinking about
Would be more enticing to read
And to know, quite frankly.
I can’t write a poem tonight
Because pouring myself out would be so much easier
Than freezing myself into short lines
(They read like stubble, not a long, flowing beard.)
You should know that you’re the one
Who made me want to capture in prose again
You’re almost like a plucked marigold flower—
It hurts a lot, but you still love helping people;
And sometimes it hurts me that you’re hurting.
I can’t write a poem tonight,
I’m thinking about you:
Not that I mind.
~Vruta Gupte.

Enigma.

A dance between minds A meeting of the senses In the foreign dark streets of the previously inhabited That have since been deserted for ...