I write, can I?

Mind-- it was a dried up desert. No thoughts, no ideas-- and feelings? None at all!

He sighed into the cold air. All of a sudden his mind had homed vacuum. It was one of those writer’s block thing. He could neither sleep nor eat. The sensation of emotional word shower was suddenly numb. He stared at his laptop, as if he wanted to emotionally black mail the word document to seed some ideas in his mind.

 Of course, what could a word document do? It was a mere lump of clay waiting to be shaped.

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 The sound of silence lodged his heart. Everything around was as still as the printed words in the books. His mind felt emptiness even in the enigmatic expression of Mona Lisa in the portrait which hung wobbly on the shabby wall of his room.

He felt as if he was fighting a war against the words and they were too cowardly to come near him.

“Why? Whaai are the ideas afraid of me?  What do I write on for my next book?”

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He started fantasizing himself as a frog in a swarm of word flies. He could see the flies but could not catch them right. He turned away from the laptop and had a fleeting glance of his reflection in a mirror nearby.

“Unfortunately, ideas don’t fly around in the air. But definitely, some thought, good or bad, does arise in my mind. Why don’t I write down whatever hits me and compile them as a piece?” he asked himself introspectively.

It was as if he saw ‘desert’ as ‘dessert’. He was more affirmative than ever. His dried up mind was replete with words, live words! His thoughts rolled down at will as if they were set free from a jail. The words sprinted along the page as his fingers danced on keyboard. He went on till he reached the saturation.

“Err……….err….Umm now what do I write?”

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The water fall - the word fall - had stopped rolling any more.

His eyes whooshed through the cramped columns of his writing, like a boy running in an alleyway of a slum city. The editor in him took over his mind. He started editing the piece.

“Oh!  I should delete, ‘and feelings? None at all! ’,in the first line. It does not sound logical. Emptiness is a feeling too! A full glass cannot be filled. Emptiness is a sign of seeking more…” he thought to himself. “I write, can I?”

Page 42

A windy Sunday night: the moon seemed to be swimming in the dark, rain filled clouds. As the breath of the wind created commotion in the clouds, moon light peeped through a broken glass window. The room was illuminated by a big candle which was almost fully melted. It was a spacious, but sparsely furnished room, except for a table, a diary, a wobbly chair and a huge clock. Quite the opposite of what the room looked like, it was replete with many experiences all buried in the pages of the diary which lay on the table.

As the wind sneaked into the room with curiosity, the diary was turned open exposing its crisply written words on the yellowed pages which personified the feelings of its owner, a poet.

“I like her smell, pure and nostalgic. Her picture is painted in my mind. Her eyes: as pure as crystals. Her hair:  as free as waterfall, and the face: as pure as the first rays of the sunlight. I crave for her…… ” said page 1.

Page 2 continued describing the beauty and the need for her. While the next 10 pages talked all about her, page 12 said “He is the root of all the misery. There can be no other beast as cruel as him….He has snatched her into his blood thirsty soul. She was molested till her blood soaked the grains of sand…..”

 By that time, the fragrance of innocuous flowers had made its presence felt. It was very curious to know if it had felt the people referred to, in the diary. As the wind and fragrance read on, they could not guess the identity of the people. Their curiosity peaked. With one more breath of the wind, all the pages were flipped just to expose the last page, PAGE 42.

“It is her, THE PEACE, which we have all been craving for. She can never be free until he, THE WAR, is confined in the darkness…..” said page 42.

                                                 

 Wind exhaled a gush of shame, as it realized that it was polluted by the hatred and violence all around. It was during the time of World War 2 that the diary was written. Time was the witness to all the misery. It was with the same frustration that the clock had stopped ticking as it could not bear the violence and hostility any more.

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