This post is what I’m feeling right now, what I’m going through right now, and that too with agony and gnaw. With each and every word dwelling into you, maybe you’ll understand me, or would never look for me in the crowd, either you’ll feel sympathy towards me, or you’ll tag me as another psycho. With these beeds of words I try to form, the necklace worth ‘priceless’, as I didn’t know one day, I would feel choked by it. Yes, I envy my words. I envy how people love them, how people get inspired by them, how they praise me and ask me for some more, and how each and every word is able to connect with them, while I could never learn the art. My words, maybe, are nowhere mine, they are theirs. And I feel terrible on the thought of it. It’s horrifying that all metaphors are likable, and my oddness is not, it’s brutal, that all the wrong punctuation is never pointed out, but my every flaw is broadcasted well, and right from where I dreamt of writing my whole life, I have arrived here, where even the pen haunts me. And the flow of ink, feels like a failed blood clotting, the coloured paper feels like an unticked list of dreams. Knot by knot, and turn by turn, I try again to bind, tie, phrase, braid my all comfort, confidence, eligance, sanity through my words, but maybe now they are shattered on the touch of them, and the breached parts, pains the chest in a much similar way, to when you’re dying in front of your loved one, into peace, but without your peacefulness, into sleep, but with eyelashes wide open, like jumping from a building to suicide and the mid-air shelf gets you. You know, the unsatisfaction. It kills me, it kills me how after so many glorified words, celebrated poems, gifted proses, I couldn’t find myself. I used to feel that poetry has my hand held, but didn’t know the grip would one day ache my hand, and force me to leave, I felt that poetry would free me, open me from boundations, but didn’t ever know, that I would never be able to feel that I am safe. And I would like an endangered species, hoping to see his tribe, but don’t know, that the writers, that feel this way, are long gone, and are now, somewhere in heaven, where they are loved more than their words.
And maybe, with time, I have learnt that it’s all worthless, to fall for someone, to write for them, to be abandoned by them, and to write for peace..cause when you write, its not peaceful, its a way the devils and angels of yours tell you, that you’re miserable. It’s a way that your wanderlust tells you, that your soul is still packed in a box. And it’s a way that your words tell you, that they are greater than you. More powerful, more saint, more beautiful and much more than what you always wished to become.
And you know, words can woo you girls, or get you prizes, but the impatience of them, would ever be dying to tell you that you’re still in dept of them. That you’re nothing without them, and that you’re never awaken without them. That your pious self, can turn into a violent evil, or your dreamer self, can turn into a melancholic, self inferior man, if they want.
Maybe, one day I’ll be able to ask if I’m really good enough for anything, or just my words would continue to make me feel conscious about myself, if I’m even worth a pen, that writes me a novel, If my blood has any worth in front of the ink I spilled, if my love is more memorable than any poem, or if my memory has bounded only to imagination.
Maybe, the words wouldn’t answer me now, and make me assure of my insufficiency,
Till then, you tell me,
“Are my words greater than me?”