As I sit hunched over my laptop,
reams of drafts to choose from,
writ over several years,
some wasted breath,
some inacrnations of death,
some agonizingly, hopefully, alive,
I cling on, desperate,
shuttling between deletion and life,
deboarding trams midway, hesitant, lost,
scouring now, scurrying now, reviving now,
driftng , rudderless, unknown, compass stuck,
Rehabiltating all I can.
All I know is:
I have to write to move onward.
I am at the gates to the serene woods.
I can hear my soft knocks on creativity’s heart.
Is it vanity? Or is it creativity? This urge to write…
Even if it is vanity, (my friend Patrick feels it is so) , it keeps my mind active.
I am compelled to think. I am compelled to think as I type.
To blog , I have to read too. So I end up reading and writing.
That is a good thing to do in a swift transforming world.
This is the age of discontinuity as Toffler said.
So I try to change myself.
I want to change from a mundane being to an intellectual tortoise.
I cannot change others.
I can change myself.
Struggling to keep to a creativity urge.
Blank minds! Blanker thoughts… pale canvas….
waiting to be painted…
the past is gnawing… my laziness smothers hope…
the future is an assumption…
Somedays , (and now so more recently) I get a feel that I need to do things faster.
I may be running out of time.
I need to leave a mark on the sands.
But then the tides wipe them away.
I shall try again.
As I watch a busy world pass by,
Me, seated on a cold cement bench,
Waiting for a face that would try,
My intellect, so dry, to quench,
I register furtive passers-by stare,
Walk away, dis-missives of hurried steps,
Harried fear, gnawing nightmare,
Until your eyes,dawn on me: dewdrops.
Clouds caressing mountains,
Warmth in cold,
Drizzle that trickles into my heart,
In nostalgia so welcome, so lost.
Mind scribbling unwrit stories,
Ebbs of emotion memories
Emptiness of lone bower,
I hear your footsteps on the water .
Came knocking on my door,
Chill, lurking fear so near,
Huddled, wait to familiar hear,
Your footsteps eager too far.
English: Newburgh: The Sands of Forvie The surface of a large mobile sand dune on the Sands of Forvie. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
White, hot, burning,
Feel barefoot, running.
From shadows which haunt,
Climbing walls that are slant.
Waves warming a cold evening.
Rhymes I heard before.
Storms in my heart.
Tremor in my hand.
Stillness of mind.