I can see still in my mind’s eye, that moment when I finished the last epoch – after binging on the entire recollection for about four days. At last, when the final period fell on the canvas, I sighed out, relieved of having cast down a precious burden onto surer shores from whence it won’t vanish. As ever, the first six epochs of writing had revealed even to me what abstract ideas I had, and reading out those words that I had unfettered in flow, I myself began to discover a lot about me.

The journey, with all its unexpected turns, gradual revealing and sudden epiphanies had been colorful. Now, as I laid staring at the completed script, I wandered a little into the dark alleys of imagination which fenced the future – from here, where will I go? How would the journey ahead diverge? What will I find? Where in a few months time will I find myself?

I shot arrows of guesses, but they always vanished into the thickets of darkness, never again seen. I couldn’t possibly conceive how the voyage ahead would feel.

Now, six moths later, it is marvelous how unexpected the path that carried me had been – one that I couldn’t have, back then, imagined. At that point, I had brought to order, all the vague chaos of ideas in my mind, answered with integrity that elusive questions I had long evaded. With all bewilderment so far banished, the road ahead seemed clear and straight ahead – no unexpected bends that hadn’t been brought to the light….yet.

‘Yet’- but I didn’t know that then. In time, deeper doubts began to plague my mind. I lost once more, all vision of why I write. I knew at once that it was a sacred art that wrought me with its force that was beyond trifles; I knew that it was an expression – a reflection of life’s beauty – which helped me find myself; my mind whispered that writing was akin to creating – that dazzling miracles, empires, and timeless characters could be spun from invisible imagination; my heart serenaded about the immortality that burnished in the core of the arts – the timelessness of classic literature – as, ever had I been fascinated by anything that transcended time.


‘What do you write about?’ people asked me. ‘I don’t know, a lot of things,’ I would say”, because I didn’t know, really – I didn’t know what the answer would sound like when armed with words, I didn’t know what form the answer takes – I have never seen it. Yet, the answer to their question lay somewhere deep beyond. It wasn’t ‘just a lot of things’ at random – but there was some center to all that I write that inspired those verses to be born. Some forgotten purpose that was struggling to express itself.

But without that core, everything I wrote seemed like sundered strings drifting in thin air. I began to loose the feeling of sacredness – the excitement of the exploration – because I didn’t know why I was writing what I was writing. Was I really just scribbling out just about anything for the sake of it? For yes, that luxuriance and charm that once emanated from my passion had dwindled down to desperate streams of scribbles – a stream that had began to choke and dry, till it almost vanished. The journey had so meandered that my spirit now was a wasteland where no art could flourish; passion had fled, the light was doused,and mere hollow corpses of words remained.

Mist, darkness and chaos – the time had come for my greatest fall yet…


To be continued…

(Image courtesy: Pinterest)


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