On reading the musings of celebrated writers and artists online, I often mistakenly perceived theirs to be peaceful lives, without the daily hustle bustle – which allowed them to sit and note down what they live through. I could not have been further away from truth. Lives were harsher, shorter and colder then – the decreased noise of the internet compensated by an increased interest of the neighborhood. Time did not allow them the peace of mind to write, they grabbed it because they wanted to.
We trace the lines of our thoughts while pausing in the middle of the rush. There is no patient Sunday afternoon that waits for this exercise. It is often an extra hour on a Monday night that has been squeezed through, which allows us to truly document our existence. This is no broadcast of political correctness, but a form of personal expression. The way we move about in society – conversing and interacting. Similarly, we write and bring forth what our mind stirs. It makes us what we are, for the future to read.
Tracing the Lines
The latter half of the last year made me look within, and focus on the knots drawn so tight, so tight to undo. It made me run my hands over the surface of the shells I had unknowingly created, and I did so in wonder, for they had disallowed a wild run in the hills.
There was a certain strength, a belief and joy – but the espresso maintained a stubborn refusal to be one with milk and sugar. This realization came less often and too late to act upon, and the mind kept demanding the same flavor in every brew being hosted. The beauty, however, lies in the new one being created.
Tracing the Nights
Love exists in abundance and sharing my blanket is a pleasurable activity. I am learning how the flavors mix, and how the acquired taste of a fellow human being fits into my palate. There are questions being answered, mistakes been made and bitter reactions being discarded. Almost like learning to fly again, I attempt to understand the new promise behind the set of bright eyes which have been stopping by.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m buying a watermelon.”
“Because you said you like watermelon.”
From simplistic acts of being a companion to stepping outside the self defined boundaries, I experience restlessness of being something new, something I do not have a recent memory of being. It is wonderful yet scary at the same time.
I built my work, and I built it based on my vision for myself. Building this path keeping in mind the consent of another individual with necessary varied tastes is, well, a journey in a sailboat. I have always preferred clarity on all fronts. Ensuring that two boats sail the same course in an ocean is an exercise that will take time getting used to. Since there is no rope tying you together, but only the one in spirit – fear is an overwhelming force to be conquered. Faith is what keeps us rooted.
Tracing the Gratitude
While the dinners and conversations have often ended with me being foolishly stubborn with my dark brew, I would always love the sketches and the songs for what they opened me up to. From the articulate curves on the paper, the quaint blue photographs, to the humming beneath the evening sky – it has been a stumbling walk to self discovery. There would always be gratitude for the experiences.
It is a new method of writing that I attempt this time. The paper is fresh and the pen is tad awkward, and the results unsure. Nonetheless, keeping my faith in these two boats as they sail the ocean.