It’s been a while since I wrote something. Quiet a long time. The writers block took some years out of life before I managed to write something. It is so dramatic that you want to express and explode with the thoughts, rumbling and scheming through the catacombs of your mind. But, still you are stupefied with the inability to write down your own thoughts.
I wrote a small piece. A letter. A fictional letter to a beloved long lost and gone forever. It was a first in past years of the creative drought. The rush of creating something just from the sequential placement of simple combination of letters into something creative and scintillating is magnificent. It gives you a sense of accomplishment. Makes you to move forward. Somehow calms you down to a level from where the chaos inside starts to pacify by itself. Every other person might be having a different thinking or feeling or interpretation, but the essence remains the same.
I liked writing long sentences. Them someone pointed that out. suggested that I try shortening the sentence. It would give a more crisp and defined look to the writing. More suggestions followed, ranging from changing the undertones to the way I write. Some even suggested focusing on the grammar. Some of them understood why I write like that. And some can never. Writing is not a planned work or a chore, which you have to do or which you have to plan. It is like an even flow of a river flooded by thought; churning and whirl-pooling as the flow proceeds silently, but with force. It comes to you naturally. you don’t think that, “today, I will write a passage”; or , “Today I will write about this situation everyone is talking about”. Its not. It is all, but a hungry pang to create something beautiful. Without a motive. Without objective.
The same people at times try and criticize art. They grade it. They try to pin a prize to it. more so, put a price to it. And its pathetic to see. Can you grade art? Can you put a price on art? can you compare two artists and their respective creations? No! you can’t. Art is not meant for being put down for a price or for being nominated for a prize. It is mean to be interpreted. Every artist creates something from the understanding gained so far within the individual self. Thus, each piece of art is different from the other, yet; beautiful. Similarly, every individual interprets art in his/her own individual self. Differently. One might see a smiling invitation with a hint of seduction in Mona Lisa. Others might see a compassionate and loving woman smiling with affection. There are no boundaries. there are no limits to where these interpretations end.
The more I write the more frothy becomes the rapids of mind with ideas and self-suggestions. It is fascinating to observe how well the human psyche respond to the stimuli which gives a sense of being able to create something from entities as simple as words. It is just a beginning to what one can think of as a journey. With no place to reach to, but to wander around endlessly. Savoring the plethora of choicest flavors of life with a hint of spice, which adds on to life.
I See Differently... 