Yeah…that’s what I do… Just write

“Stop thinking anil ! – its too depressive, I mean those words you wrote- they were so depressive”- her pensive voice crackled down on the phone.

I shrugged my shoulder …”Hey – I never set out with a mind that I would write something depressive and make people mull over it…no…I write what comes to my mind, collate it and then proof read to censor out the foul. That’s it !!”

The conversation ended there- but it left me with that queer feeling.

I write….I recite.

May be just write- never recite though- very rarely do I ever recite my scribes…I just write. Yes… that’s what I just do…. Write.

I want my fingers to speak in cipher and symbol, in character and punctuation – I want them to speed across this empty slate of white, filling it with curves of black representing the underlying idea and passion.

I don’t know why I want others to read it but I know that I want them to – I want them to, for a brief fleeting moment – see what I see, to feel what I feel in the void of my skull…Understand the world through my eyes, and be brightened, saddened, twisted, bent, gyred, spun, and transformed. No…nay it is not ego that drives me so to write – there is nothing inside me so great that I must stop at nothing to get it out, No …there isn’t any explosion of math and science and passion that threatens to tear me at my seams.

No…It is not sadness, madness, or gladness that makes me write these things – it isn’t some overwhelming fire of humanity. My life is not a particularly interesting one, my struggles not particularly unique. And yet – there is something here. Something alive inside the skull, chewing away at every thought – fattening like a larva on a mulberry bush – driving some arcane wheels in my head.

Yes it is that something that is turning some dust-covered gears and animating my fingers to write, and simply fill the page with alphabets.

They say that words can create a hell or paint a slice of heaven in your mind…so apt…so true…So be it that it is through this writing that you and I can grasp up to the heavens of our own design, and sit for a while, enjoying the gentle ebb of time, like two idle lovers caught on an indolent summer in a hammock. I know that when I write, I can turn to you, and as my fingers speak to you in confidential tones, you can see things the way I do.

Simple things sometimes, the gentle swell of sea on a shore, the delicate sway of a single strand of grass caught in the wind, eyes shining with starlight. Complex things too: an ant-hill overflowing with activity, a million times a million engines of desire performing those tasks which define them.

I will say: Can you see this all? Isn’t it beautiful? And then you might understand why I write. Then you might see what it really is that drives me forward, as surely as an electron spins itself into eternity. The ants, the beach, the grass, the people, the laughter, the light, the stars, everything- Things which are neither bad, nor good – nor do I wish to ever think in such black and white, love and hate, destroy and create terms.

Things, which just are - which in our tremendous winding up of life, we seem to miss. We don’t treasure those tiny moments of time where the only thing that should matter is that single blade of grass, or that lovers shy glance, or that wave breaking gently on the shore.

Torpid currents of life swirl us into balls of hate and envy, and darkness, and those moments are past. But they give birth to more light and laughter, and we ignore those too , for long we have been told to ignore things that don’t matter…I concur in parts but then my pea brain asks the question that If ignorance is bliss, why aren't there more happy people?

I guess, we Hunger too much, we Pain too much. And one might think that my avoidance of the truth – repelling from my words like corresponding magnetic fields – is because I don’t have the truth.

Yes I don’t have the truth; this of course is partially true, just like everything is partially true – just as this phrase itself is partially true. And even before my words swallow themselves in a twisted-eight swirl of infinity –Yet I write, for I have to.

I write to prove to a part of me that I am still here, and to know the fact that my ideas still can flow, and a purpose still exists.

I don’t write because I mean anything, I, write because you mean something to me.

I write because everything is beautiful and nothing is, simultaneously– a strange paradox as if by a magic that everyone practices but no one understands.

I write because when I write, I trap those lost moments of time like insects in amber, and I hold them up to the brightness and I make available that spark of mankind that is so transient in our busy lives.

I write because I am the godless sufi whirling around in the ecstasy of his beloved in this desert of darkness.

I write to bare my soul naked to you and stand alone before your mind – defenseless- so that you analyze me and tell me where I am faltering.

I write to renew a part of me that is tired and sad, frightened and terrible,hungry and thirsty.

I write because somewhere in you- are all those things, all of us are tired and hungry , sad and frightened in our own little ways, and because this is one of the few ways in which I may drive it off for a while.

Writing is one of the few ways I can say Hello to the ghoul of death that hangs over every dew-drop that hasn’t yet been born, that wreathes me in a crown of my own thorns, and whispers to the sun in words of violet and orange.

I write because it allows me to cheat death at least for one more day, to proclaim in my own little, tiny, fleeting voice that everyone can be a beacon, in the planes of the lightless dark, and can Shepard their brothers through the valley of darkness.

Most of all, I just write. Yeah…that’s what I do… Just write