Writing – An intriguing word with a complex meaning, describing an act that involves the momentary trance of the human brain during which the mind takes over the body. Such a faithful and comfortable exercise….
Sitting by a blank page and letting the mind color its veins has always been such a natural task. Never have the pages run out of their spree, nor has the ink controlled their flow. Writing should always be so energetic…
Lest when I cannot write….
I fearfully wander the pavements of my mind to search for a lost key. Seldom was it to be found. However, in search of a new abode I lost the path of my sanctuary. So there I stood with a blank page and a mindful of translated colors that transformed into white. Unless the white could turn grey, I resorted to wander in the featureless space…
Since tonight I cannot write….
I do not feel so because my brain objects to leaving its supremacy – as a huge number of people would have me to believe – or my hands feel constricted with chains. Neither has my pen run out of ink. But, I feel so since the world around me has failed my purpose of searching for a text in itself.
So, tonight I cannot write…..
And that is why I struggle my feet to the terrace of my house and coldly stare at the stars. “How meaningless is their twinkle. How unattractive is the moon that lingers in their company and floats by the clouds since it doesn’t inspire my pen.” I think it is very depressing that the world has forgotten to love itself. Yet, I cannot let it be known.
As, tonight I cannot write….
Sighing I sit by my towers of gloom for my words have lost their signs. And this is why I detest the world for it erased the rhythm of my lines. As the night grows darker and stiller still becomes the world, I would have to read the unwritten texts…..
While tonight I cannot write…
What a pity I should say
For isn’t it tonight that I cannot write?