I write because of an inability to write, to express what I feel for the very fear of not feeling it once I write. This state of irony has made me numb. Not to others only but even myself. My beauty has eluded me. In fact I sometimes feel so old I can hardly recognize myself. It is as if I have caught rust-the rust of routine as Marquez would have said.
Yes, I know I write in the past, but the present has become a thing of the past too. Too many times I find myself doing things I did earlier and swore not to repeat. I keep on finding solutions and yet don’t have any. Side effects of a love withering I guess. It makes me wither too. I see it raining outside but all I feel is a sense of incompleteness. Nostalgia fills you up. But, what I have is not nostalgia. It is future, Emptiness in my future. My lost rhyme of future intrudes my present and my past. Loving for me has become so alien now. I used to make a big deal out of it.
Now, I am caught in the web of my own fancies. But, the mirror is cracked already yet I cannot see beyond my reflections. I have climbed down from the tower. I board the boat to the other side. I don’t drown but neither do I reach the other side. The boat moves round and round and round. It doesn’t sink. And that is why I sit to write knowing that no one can ever read this.
