Saturday, October 8, 2016


courtesy :
My will is to write on what I am willing to write.  I force not my fingers to write the words I do not want to read.  I force not my brain to think the sentence just to seduce the eyes that is going to read.  I write because I do not do any meditation.  The knowledge of stopping my mind to think is something I have not been taught.  I decided to teach it myself – I write.  I think of writing so that I think not of anything else.  I look at every letter as a girl sometime, as a child sometime, as a cloud, as a star, as a new born, as a teacher and what not.  Only few times I looked those words I write as words.  Never my mind said I am running out of words because all that it was filled with is just words, all that I didn’t recite.  More than the conversation with my fellow humans I converse with my mind, I watch and it dictates.  Not all time it is my dictator sometimes I proclaim the dictatorship and enjoy the difference of opinion between me and my mind.  I love when it disobeys me. When the thoughts are like slow moving water I stop it with a dam built inside and redirect it to the canals to flow through.  Not all time it is possible that the water flows in tranquil sometimes it rains heavily and the water rushes to the dam with its full force.  The use of cannels makes no sense then; it overflows thus avoiding the wreckage in the dam. What makes one to write is a mystery; the divine code of secret.  When that code is broken and the secret is revealed then that is the day of books; no more books will be published.  Not to all the eyes these are words but to the few, may be to the many, this is just the permutation and combination of words.  Those are the beautiful minds that calculate searches and researches.  For few these letters jumbled in order makes all sense.  They read it with their eyes but what they look at is not the words but the heart of the finger that wrote.  Those were the beautiful hearts. They read, smile and cry at the words for they know under what emotions those words are knitted.  They know under what pain those mistake in the sentences are made.  To write is not an art but a science.  The science of stopping the mind to think, the science of redirecting the thoughts to the way the heart like to flow.  To read is not a science but an art of deciphering the heart of the writer and the art of understanding the pain of the others wounds. It is the art of falling in love with the one that has never ever has appeared before their eyes, never ever spoke into their ears; the real love that everyone is foreseeing for; the unconditional love.  Till that unconditional, unbridled love exists in this planet there will be hands that knit the letters into words then into sentence in turn into book that warms the eyes of the readers. What really is a miracle; the rain of gold from the sky or the sprinkles of water? Tons of gold dropping from the sky will only create fear in the hearts but the rain brings happiness.  Is it not the rain a miracle!  I was searching for bigger things, a great miracle to happen so that I could pen down until I saw the little finger of a girl standing before me.  I could look at nothing else but her finger in her foot; so beautifully sculpted.  I thought it was a tiny finger but the time I took to adore the sculpture made me realize that it is of the size of this universe.  The nail it held were polished and decorated and at the tip of the nail as grown after the coloring so that it looked like a crown of a princess. She moved it like a wand putting me in trance.  The spell that that finger spelled made me stay awake but in a mesmerizing sleep that nothing else around me existed.  Could a little finger can make put me in such a state! I then realized, understood the meaning of the words miracle.  There exist no miracle in the air, it is inside.  Sometimes a little wand like her finger puts spells to provoke it. The ups and downs of those little finger where the speed breakers stopping my eyes to go up or down; mesmerization at its height. Slowly the wand moved from its position and came closer to me.  I don't want it to move for I might wake up from the trance and face the real world.  But it moved, came closer to me, crossed passing me and disappeared. Nothing could explain that enchanting finger than the words; thus it is here. 

1 comment:

  1. Well written. How we start writing is a myestery and the catchment of inspiration is always so abstract..


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