Candid Writer

Forgive the randomness of my ideas and the incoherence of my thoughts for I am quite delirious at the moment

At the moment there is a storm brewed in my mind which is growing stronger with each minute passing, with its eye in my soul. I have to put something out there to check its trajectory and counter its intensity. Its all dark and random and chaotic. It is as I am caught in the sea of thoughts in the dark confines of my mind and my soul. I can see everything and feel the thoughts and the ideas surrounding me but I cannot find a direction, I am unable to make a way. I just wander around in their labyrinth, and the more i try to force my way out of it, the more I get near to the eye of the storm. I am caught in the agonizing web of thoughts and get more caught and crunched in the layers of my thoughts by their mere indefiniteness.

One of the reasons that I can comprehend is the Writer’s bloc (a cliche). My pen is stagnant for a long time or more accurately, It is  at less freedom at the moment. I don’t know if It is the reason or not. It could be, positively, or not, perhaps. To be honest, I am unable to put my mind to anything at the moment as I feel that I am deceiving the task and myself, apart from the purpose of the task itself.

My best friends are at my disposal but they fail to make a mark today. The pages and the words seem so superficial, the plot so irrelevant and the characters so monomaniac that it puts me to shame for my indifference to their genius, because i know them to be of great art and quality. May be the moment is itself the spoil-maker. Or I have been an unworthy and undeserving reader. May be, maybe not.

What should I do then? Write a poem? But the sure deceive me, rather they confuse me. They just stir the storm further to no end. Even by sheer reluctance, if I manage to get hold to some of them, I believe, at the moment I do not have the necessary faculties at my disposal to intertwine the words into a swift candid flow of expression, preserving their elegance which might in turn convey the contours of my thoughts, which I feel would be cruel to my conscience. Maybe I am  being too superfluous, maybe not.

What then? Indifference, Negligence, Intoxication.

I think I would rather read a little (reluctantly) and sleep a while. Maybe along the way to those things, I will keep asking myself, Does my storm stir the world or the world shape my storm?

PS : Its better now.


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