On Writing...

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I always mean to write - write ceaselessly. Or let's say: I mean to write as much as I can whenever possible. I keep making a promise to myself: "Today," I say to myself with resolve in every twitch of my tongue, "I will write come what may." The times I make that promise are the times thoughts and ideas walk into my head, sit pretty at my desk, and keep nudging me to - you know - "write us down or we'll leave this very instant."

I smile when they say that to me. It's as if they want to have a conversation with me and fear my finicky attention span may take away all my interest in them. So I smile yet again and nod my head. "I am here - right here." is what I try to say to them by my smiling and nodding. "I am looking at you two and I want to talk to you."

That makes them look at each other and shake their legs in anticipation. Perhaps, in excitement as well. They have a whole lot to heave out of their chests and I play eager student to their professorial act. Of course, I do make it seem to them as if it's a soothing afternoon in a cafe by the most exquisitely manicured park. This park sits by a blue lake in front of those misty mountains my imagination always runs to. I face the windows that tell me of the grand view the mountains and the lake paint and I, in turn, tell the two I am idling time with. 

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They, in turn, keep looking over their shoulders every now and then to ensure the landscape has remained just the way I told them it was a few seconds ago. They like it - I can see their approval twinkle in their eyes. And I am satisfied enough to not shake a leg nor tighten my shoulders should an embarrassing wave of questions come my way. 

We keep talking, and we keep ordering coffee. Cups and cups of it with the cream doing a dance of the mushiest design on their surfaces. It's the afternoon you see. The cafe owner has left the door open for a loving breeze to walk in, and the Sun has just about started to sprinkle the cool shadows in the park with happy shiny spots of warmth. 

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As one such spot reaches the cafe window, I realize I have so much to pay attention to. So much to cross-check, emphasize upon, and so much more to delve deep into. The merry weight of that realization leans on my shoulders thereafter. My shoulders are okay with it, and my head starts to swim in a complacent little pond of contentment. Sleep follows thereafter, and in a couple of minutes I am adrift on my pillow.

Half an hour later, I have had my fill of nightmares and scenes that lie somewhere amidst twilight, reality, and bitter perfumes. I swim out of the pond and wake up to find my coffee there with the cream crumpled into a heap. In another heap on a saucer are paper napkins shaped like balls of rough drafts in the bin. A little away from the table are the seats - empty and impressed upon.

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Thoughts and ideas are all gone. They leave no visiting cards nor do they pay the bill. Their rustling away covers the mouth of the associated noise that that would bring along. Which is why I do not hear them go.  

Nor do I know where they have gone either. They might have walked down the street to shop at the mall or may have caught a cab and gone back to the places they came from - I don't know.  

All I do know is that a sheet of paper taps its dog ears impatiently on the ribs of a book. The sheet's white with rage and empty, and so is my head...