Fulki

And then-slowly,modestly,sheepishly the day dawned on me.In me.So did the reality,braided in between the rusted rims of my uncurtained windows.

Reaching out to my eyelids,disrupting the pseudo serenity slumberland gifted me with; poking my sight,bruising the unexposed ego that lie within;awakeing me with pain.

And then- slowly,vehemently,fiercely an agony arose.A crucifying torture that I’d postponed from last night when sleep had taken over.Fragmented memories of vague conversations and broken tears swept past my half closed eyes,choking my lungs;arousing an array of ugly emotions.

Ugly emotions-Creeping into the bedsheet,spreading to occupy the suffocating vaccum outside and inside me,leaving a trail of bitterness that weekened my late night resolve to put it all behind and move forward.

Sometimes i just about know that it is impossible,that the wound is here to stay.For keeps.From then on my energies are focussed on veiling the hurt.From others.From self.

So there I go,with my loud demeanor and whimsical eccentricities;camouflaging sorrows behind huge laughters,sophisticated smiles,annoying “PJs” and the playful banters.Memories of the drunken night and a hidden tear flashed through and a strange sober smile kissed the corner of my lips.

And then-slowly,aggresively,annoyingly an anger erupted inside me.For having let my senses get out of control,for having let my world slip through my fingers;for allowing one dissapointment break my soul.

With that fierce abhorance,I threw away the bedspread to the floor and sat up.Picked up a paper and started scribbling.I’ve done this upteem number of times in the last few months.And time and again realized…

“What the mind fabricates,the pen can’t etch!”

I’ve failed.As a writer.No more one,for that matter.And it had taken me so many months of persistence and tortorous zeal to learn this.The truth crept and resided deep inside,last night.

Every day a zillion thoughts rush through my mind in every living nanosecond,a trillion stories do a tantalizing mockery dance.But how could i possibly sit down,collect this weird randomness(or random weirdness?)and adorn them on paper?

I’ve done this before.But I cant seem to anymore!

And the failing is killing.My friend likes to quote Shoba De ‘Writing is a drug.If you have tasted it once…well”.

And who better than I to vouch this? No other happiness,no other appreciation,reward or excellence is as fulfilling as seeing one’s thoughts being sculpted into a story.The sense of a calm contentment burgeons within,every time I write.

Discussed with a thousands of fellow aspiring writers and reached a conclusion that a writer’s block is mostly psychological and that if one puts his/her mind to it,one can work wonders with words.However it is tough to believe so.It is when one experiences it,does one understand.The situation is undoubtedly pathetic.

Still I persisted.Decided to fight and write,to put my mind to it!!

Followed the free advice a dear friend gave me over a cup of coffee, “Adopt a method to the madness” He had said “Observe people around you” “All the time”.

So I started,continuosly observing people around me,conciously and subconciously;noting down in my memory notepad the language they speak,the dreams they spin,the games they play,their tiny stories!

I saw them acting,joking,laughing,singing,running.Life became beautiful.There I saw,a treasure of fascinating stories.But again,I failed to write about this enlightening experience of constantly watching,understanding,loving;people and their idiosyncracies.

The finger on the keyboard is still,like stagnant waters of a pool.
Therefore I wait;endlessly,listlessly,ridiculously-hoping things will change,I will write again. That a spark will strike me and from then now,there will be no looking back.
A decent piece of work,is all I ask.

Eh wait,How is this one? Ah!

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(Fulki-Spark)