Someone asked me a question. What was it with me and writing? Surely there are other better things to do. Right?
That's like saying what's it with a painter and drawing? And more than anything else, do I need to be tested, to prove my love for something so enjoyable, as writing? Am I to paint a stone to prove my worth in art, more metaphorically speaking?
Crackers explode in my head on thinking about your audacity in asking me.
I can stand here all day, wearing my comfy flip-flops, staring at the cream wall, contrasting, yet combining beautifully with the blood red curtains. The painting of the yellow flower on the wall only enhances the soul stirring effect. I can smell the perfume you left behind after you led me here and then walked away. I can hear the voices of the trees outside your window. I can hear the water flowing gently in the creek outside, and the wind as the air rustles the tree leaves. I can hear the birds chirping gleefully basking in their freedom, as I stand here in bondage. Not a physical chain, but mental ones.
The keys on the table near the painting, that act as a weight holding that piece of thread that tore from your dress reminds me of how once I could take a pen and write down my ideas. My ideas, like the thread, I could hold down with my imagination, as the keys held the thread. I lift it up and let the thread soar in the breeze. Up and out the window.
The lamp now dies out, and the silence of your abstract ideas threatens to engulf me.
I can write no longer now. You asked me once what it was with me and writing.
Now there's nothing.
- Vinaykrishnan.
That's like saying what's it with a painter and drawing? And more than anything else, do I need to be tested, to prove my love for something so enjoyable, as writing? Am I to paint a stone to prove my worth in art, more metaphorically speaking?
Crackers explode in my head on thinking about your audacity in asking me.
I can stand here all day, wearing my comfy flip-flops, staring at the cream wall, contrasting, yet combining beautifully with the blood red curtains. The painting of the yellow flower on the wall only enhances the soul stirring effect. I can smell the perfume you left behind after you led me here and then walked away. I can hear the voices of the trees outside your window. I can hear the water flowing gently in the creek outside, and the wind as the air rustles the tree leaves. I can hear the birds chirping gleefully basking in their freedom, as I stand here in bondage. Not a physical chain, but mental ones.
The keys on the table near the painting, that act as a weight holding that piece of thread that tore from your dress reminds me of how once I could take a pen and write down my ideas. My ideas, like the thread, I could hold down with my imagination, as the keys held the thread. I lift it up and let the thread soar in the breeze. Up and out the window.
The lamp now dies out, and the silence of your abstract ideas threatens to engulf me.
I can write no longer now. You asked me once what it was with me and writing.
Now there's nothing.
- Vinaykrishnan.
