To be written

There are so many things I want to write, so many unwritten, unsaid thoughts that swim haphazardly in my mind. One would hope the ritual of putting pen to paper, the mesmerizing effect of seeing wet ink glisten momentarily on a cream-write sheet and sink into it, bonding with the fibers that exist solely to capture the sighs of minds around the world as they are relieved of the burden of thoughts strung together by one idea, one experience-- one would hope that that legacy would invoke some sense of talent or creativity and stitch some words together, embroider that fabric with musical, poetic phrases and thoughts dug up from the mercurial sheen that exists, glowing seductively, at the back of one’s mind. One could say, one hopes too much. I wonder if I shall ever write anything great -- a novel or a verse of poetry. To read something well-thought-out, something well described, something expressed so entirely in essence that it leaves one wanting more, craving that inference into deeper and deeper realms of that piece of writing that the reader almost touches the singular thought that had inspired such an appropriation of language. To create something that divine, something that beautiful comes to me only in a dream wherein I run and I gasp as I reach out towards a flying sheet of paper I am sure holds that veracious singular thought, or perhaps fabric whooshing past my head, embroidered with those words and phrases, glittering with stones of similes, mounted by metaphors unheard of, mounted on that great pedestal on which I hope to stand atop, holding that very sheet, donning that very fabric.
It is in this state of mind that I re-read my written words and curse at my ineptitude; if only each thought were retrievable, if only each one could be recorded, I think as I sigh, on yet another cream-white sheet.

Location: Waari Book Cafe, Kothrud