Crazy, Stupid Love
In
words I found love. I would play with them, arrange them one next to the other,
scribbling them off whenever they did not obey me and convey the meaning I
wanted, decorating the i's and the y's with beautiful loops and curves, and
smiling with pride once I wrote a beautiful writing.
I
would throw them around in obscure corners of paper- newspaper advertisements,
useless posters, math sums- and my computer. I would be ruthless enough to
forget them when I got frustrated about where to put them in my writing, and
then, like a reluctant child, come back looking for the same beautiful phrases
which I once discarded as stupid.
Stories
did not come into my mind like a train of thoughts, waiting for me to board it
and be carried and led into a new world. They came in my romances with words. I
would stare at a word or a sentence for long and out of some unknown fear or
perhaps change of mind, the words would convey a different meaning than what
dictionaries describe. They would make me weave characters with golden thread
that would shine in my mind like new-found treasure, and I would try my best to
dig out what was useful for me and leave behind the rest with an ache in my
heart, to be used later, when some other new words would ask me about my past
memories, and I would joyfully recall them, putting them down on paper for
another story in the voice of another character.
I
would not simply stop at a line once I wrote it. I inquired the spaces between
words if they felt lonely, and without waiting for their answers I would slip
in adjectives, change existing verbs and bring a new turn to my idea. I do not
consider myself a deep thinker, but I found depth in words. I would follow the
course of the river of words downhill, until I came to riverbeds so deep that
even I could not dive to find what I was looking for(if at all I knew what I
was looking for).
As
I wrote, I fell in love slowly, and then all at once.
And
they betrayed me.
They
left me. The once-boring real life began to seem more interesting. The more I
kept away from words the less I missed them, and they did not even call for me.
They did not ask me to uncover some more mysteries, create some more magical
worlds and live a different person's life, for I had become too busy living my
own. I had become unfaithful to them and they did not even care enough to lure
me back into their possession.
 |
| Learn to write. Write to learn. Go figure...I don't know what that means. And when you have learnt it, write it for the others to learn. Funny business, eh? |
And
here I am, writing again, asking for mercy and forgiveness from them, to bring
back some of the magic I lost in the years I had been away from them.
-----
Yashraj Talan is a
self-proclaimed sane person, yet to be forced under psychiatric consultation
due to lack of any scientific proof to the contrary. Apart from troubling the
world with his annoying but innovative antics, he also finds time to sleep and
wake up every day as well as live life beyond his online existence, fighting
procrastination every few hours a day.
-----
THE HAZY ROAD
Many a map I consulted,
Many a call for help I did
shout,
The darkness was overpowering-
Strange animal calls dominated
the bout.
The path was hazy:
The going, not so easy,
The cloudy day was dark,
I, fearless, went far and far
Until I came to the end of
forestry,
The orange sun shining bright
And there I stood at the end of
the woods,
Thinking, which hazy road I had
travelled by…
