" Ten Thousand Years and You're Still on Your Own."

For some strange reason I write better on Word file than directly on to the blog. Though I have never done this for a blog post before, but I am demonstrating this now.

For some days my mind confronted, interrogated and tortured my fertility to produce something. Some-thing which I could read over and over and feel pleasant. A piece of art and not some rambling. Rambling, the word has such weightage; the greatest minds reduce their words of prophecy to ‘rambling’ making it dismissive yet profound. Profound, another emotions or adjective currently absent from my life and mental state. Mental state, I am unaware of its condition right now. Not just right now but for a month now. A month has passed and I have yet not felt an impulsive emotional outburst that made me sit and write about cruel decorations which I associated to my soul. ‘My soul’, I had never used this phrase before and usage now probably demonstrates my passivity and degrading emotionality. Emotionality and its lack ring a bell of something about which everybody can write. Write stupid poems on, even hilarious short-stories and the likes of Ravinder Singh can even weave a ridiculous novel(s) around it. ‘It’ is love. (Ya Allah! How infertile I must be feeling).

 Love, the word reminds me of certain things. Things and times I misunderstood, but was it really misunderstanding because for the few moments I felt it, it was brilliant. Brilliant and quenching, like Laura’s songs and Cohen’s voice. Cohen’s voice resonating the movements in bed, but ‘the bed’ wasn't too relevant some times. Sometimes mere conversations are enough. Enough to dream and weave. Weave the smiles some words and footsteps evoke in you. ‘You’, that word pointing to someone special who stirred happiness as easily as sadness. Sadness experienced in leaving their hand as we lowered, but that happiness in quickly grabbing onto another. Other, another; like, alike. Alike like no one, yet like many who walk around with carelessly stitched up armors of pig-skin around their heart. Heart prone and addicted to meat-eaters who perform spectacles out of cooking and have the most innocent smiles. Smiles are never on criminals but victims, I rarely have it. It comes and leaves both me and my lover. Lover, so many each alike and unique in arms which still wrap up memories of each like scent of sweat imprisoned amongst clothes in winters. Winters call upon melancholia, not a sharp one but a softer one which is capable of blemishes. Blemishes occupied by happiness and people I can laugh with. With who I could talk all night about dogs, chocolate and blemishes. Blemishes are beautiful, just like winters and lost lovers. But are lovers truly lost or they shift from the rented apartments of comfort to bodies observed from windows of vehicles. Vehicles out of which we stare with utter hope. Hoping that the meaning of useless and aimless things shall be found here. Here where being transient is the only permanent characteristic.

I conclude this, because I can no longer continue the technique I was writing with (starting the sentence with the last phrase of the previous sentence). Listening to Laura inspired all this, and I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. I shall let the last words be her’s:

“And I am lower now and lower still, 

And you did always say that one day I would suffer,

 Did always say that people get their pay. 

You did always say that I was going places, 

And that you wouldn't have it any other way.”