Writing, sometimes, can be the most stifling feeling in the world. It robs you of all your privacy, and ruthlessly strips naked every bleak corner of your mind; your imagination, your hopes, your desires, your everything; printed in ink on an otherwise flimsy blank paper.
The stain of ink in coherent intelligible figures can humiliate you, and make reality ten times withal real. It can be the tightest slap you remember all your life, while the slaps in your childhood seem like sweet gestures of warnings by Mother to mend your twisted ways that ultimately lead to your fall; on such a blank paper.
I don't understand why we're so stubborn. Why we're constantly rushing to plunge into every possible scope of entanglement and openly wish, hope and pray we never find our way out and breathe again. We like gasping. I think we like this mess. I think we're so used to it, that fresh air feels wrong, now.
The mind enjoys being in a perpetual state of frustration, and our language seems to be that of constant sarcasm and cocky-ness that only earns some more of the two from the other end of every communication we indulge in.
And what's terrible, is that this is mistake we're ready to make one more time, and then another time, and the time after that. Because we're just so god damn scared of being free. Of having our own space. Because we think that would be the world's way of abandoning us.
It's ridiculous, loathsome, and repulsive; this constant urge to keep doing something. And when we try to clean some wax off our minds, and sit down to write about the happier things in life, all we pour out are our dark little revelations and regrets. Because you just goddamn can't lie to a goddamn paper. It's powerless; your mind thinks. Who will he tell? It'll just stay. It'll yellow around it's corners and age away, perhaps with ink blots and cigarette burns.
But that's the point; it stays.
And you can't do anything about it, because? You never used a pencil.
You were just so sure about everything, remember?
-Nil.
The stain of ink in coherent intelligible figures can humiliate you, and make reality ten times withal real. It can be the tightest slap you remember all your life, while the slaps in your childhood seem like sweet gestures of warnings by Mother to mend your twisted ways that ultimately lead to your fall; on such a blank paper.
I don't understand why we're so stubborn. Why we're constantly rushing to plunge into every possible scope of entanglement and openly wish, hope and pray we never find our way out and breathe again. We like gasping. I think we like this mess. I think we're so used to it, that fresh air feels wrong, now.
The mind enjoys being in a perpetual state of frustration, and our language seems to be that of constant sarcasm and cocky-ness that only earns some more of the two from the other end of every communication we indulge in.
And what's terrible, is that this is mistake we're ready to make one more time, and then another time, and the time after that. Because we're just so god damn scared of being free. Of having our own space. Because we think that would be the world's way of abandoning us.
It's ridiculous, loathsome, and repulsive; this constant urge to keep doing something. And when we try to clean some wax off our minds, and sit down to write about the happier things in life, all we pour out are our dark little revelations and regrets. Because you just goddamn can't lie to a goddamn paper. It's powerless; your mind thinks. Who will he tell? It'll just stay. It'll yellow around it's corners and age away, perhaps with ink blots and cigarette burns.
But that's the point; it stays.
And you can't do anything about it, because? You never used a pencil.
You were just so sure about everything, remember?
-Nil.
And it is because it stays, we keep running back to it, don't you think?
ReplyDeletePeople now might have refrained from genuinely listening to others, contrary to what they promise, but the paper is always there. Silently listening, without questions, and judgements. And you can always taste the salt of your tears in the ink, always remember what was it like.
And that was a brilliant read, of course!
DeleteYes, we do keep running back to it in strange ways and stranger days. The paper, was always listening..
DeleteThank you so much :)
I always wondered whether what is so special about using ink on a blank and dumb paper.
ReplyDeleteStubborn nature of being so sure about everything and repeatedly commiting the mistake of commiting mistakes again and again, everytime believing instinctively that it isn't a mistake. It is all the power of our instincts that neither allow us to think nor use pencils. Yet we are living on instincts. And with ink in our hand we love living dangerously on the edge. Dont we?
Did I just say again that I love ink with instincts???
P.S. I wish i had used pencils many a times in my life and on paper . You see, dumb looking blank papers with ink on it are actually capable of roaring ...:)
Your last statement would be WORD. Papers with ink on it are definitely and always capable of roaring.
DeleteAnd we human are the best animals, I tell you. Running on instincts are a second habit to us; sometimes even the first :)
A beautiful write-up blazing with brilliance...
ReplyDeletePS: I still carry and use ink pen!
Thank you so much, Satya!
DeleteHaha, I guess pencils were given up with childhood and wisdom... Haaah, irony!
I write because I feel like writing. If that would make me feel humiliated, or naked, or violated, I am here to bear the consequences of my own making. Because I feel like it. :)
ReplyDeleteCheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
I write because I feel like writing. If that would make me feel humiliated, or naked, or violated, I am here to bear the consequences of my own making. Because I feel like it. :)
ReplyDeleteCheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
Oh yes, most definitely. The prerequisite of being a writer is to love to humiliating yourself with your own words. And somehow, it's an absolutely perfect feeling. No matter how much you loathe it sometimes, you come back to it, time and again. :)
DeleteAfter a long wait.
ReplyDeleteSomething I was craving for a really long time, a revelation. I thank you here for writing this, love.
Aw, Monx. You're the sweetest. Thank you. Always sucha happy day when you stop by! :*
Delete