I have always wanted to be a writer. Maybe because I am lonely…I don’t really know why. Perhaps because most writing stems from loneliness, well at least these kinds of blogs do! Or, maybe it is like drinking…both a drunkard and a writer can be dangerous after all. Most importantly it gives me time to chew my pencil to a stub, as I go over everything. Every unimportant thing that is. You see, there’s hardly anything happening that I want to write about…it is all so monotonous. After I’m done with the pencil, I reprimand myself, “Hey! That’s a dirty thing you’re doing.” Yeah, I talk to myself. I talk to myself quite a lot. That’s where I do most of my talking – in my head. Believe it or not, it keeps me sane (though around me people mark it as a sign of insanity!). Oh! The world’s a pretty confusing place.
I don’t really have a story to tell. I’m not Austen, though definitely I worship her. It’s a warm autumn day, and I am dead bored of electronic circuits, so I’m doing what I do best – scribbling. Everything I know, and everything you do not want to know, rather you need not know about me, or the rest. It’s terribly big, this place we live in, so I don’t think we really need to update ourselves with knick-knacks of extra-personal lives. Agree that’s what we do best, but still…I find no use in remembering death anniversaries of old Aunt Polly’s half a score cats or poor Lydia’s train of unsuitable suitors! I wonder why these other angles interest us so much more. I find my perfectly monochromatic life a lot more intelligible! To go on with all the scribbling I do – I scribbled a poem last night which gathered around eight likes on facebook. I will copy it down for you. Who knows perhaps you may actually like it! ☻
Of Life, et cetera:
Viva la Vida.
Kiss upon lips –
wild. potent. devastating.
Of Love, and Certainty:
lashes laugh in Saturday rain;
melancholic slits spurt pungent disdain.
Of Death, and Destiny:
runes unread, unspun lies abject;
salt-blue wreckage of remembrance.
Of Life, and Loyalty:
desires forbidden ache, mistakes made;
illicit wishes speckle emptiness with sighs.
Viva la Vida.
Ecstasy of the Soul –
true. transient. immaculate.
Not really sure about the “immaculate” in the last line.
Maybe this is good. Maybe this is not. But all this assembling words makes me happy, even when I’m all alone. Even if no one wants to read through them. I really want to be a writer someday. I might not be good enough, I might not be known, or I might not even be published, ever. Nevertheless that is what I want to be.