What has to be written? It had been quite a few days since I had touched the pen to write something meaningful. There are no reasons as such which I could find to know why I am finding it difficult to collect the thoughts at one place, to keep the calm, to attain tranquility.
Sometimes, I feel there is so much to express. There is so much inside that wants to come down and lay down on paper. But the next moment, as soon as I pick up the pen and open the diary, I go blank. Absolutely blank!
The white of the paper stares deep into the black of my eyes and it waits, it eagerly waits and pleads the brown of the hands to spread over it the blue of the ink.
I know I am not going to make any sense at the end of this write up. May be when you’re going to read this, you might not find anything sensible. Nothing at all. Absolutely nothing! (Please mind me using the word ‘absolutely’ for number of times. I absolutely love the word). But I am doing this. I am writing this piece because I want to break this. I want to break this prison within which I have put myself. This one article is for nobody else but me.
The last few days have been too tough on this little mind. It has sucked every bit of juice out of my head (already dealing with the dandruff problem). The heart almost had stopped beating. What a disappointing year end I had. Although there is nothing to be worried about but still there prevails a worry. There is this void that is creating the unbearable noise. The heart seems to be pumping faster. The unusual feeling in stomach is disturbing. I must not go down further. Everything is fine over there. Absolutely fine!
Laid on my bed, looking at the ceiling at 2 in the night (2 in the morning for technical assholes), I began to look deep into the white color of the ceiling. After sometimes, there were so many colors appearing out of the white. Those colors made way to different other shades. My eyes became the painter that night and the white ceiling the canvas.
It took no more time for the painting to find its meaning. A face began to appear out of those colors. They were those cheeks. Round and sparkling. They touched the eyes when the lips smiled. I knew who she was. It was she. The ceiling of the room was telling me the most beautiful story ever and I listened to it like a five year old.
I smiled. Before the smile of my lips through the road of my cheeks could reach the edges of my eyes, she disappeared. All the colors sunk in. The white was back to its best.
To be honest, I know why I am sad. There is this hard fact that pains the heart at best. The fact that I could very well picture her, imagine her, dream her but could never get her.
Am I in love?
I had told you I was not going to make any sense at the end of this article. Here I am!
Or is it that I am putting the pen to rest at a time when I am suddenly beginning to make some sense?
The Spectator 