8th Day of Addiction

I stare blankly on the screen while the cursor gawks at me with an audacious look

What to write next? is the question that pops in my mind. It is filled with multiple thoughts that want to come out like the smoke that fills the air with ashes of emotions. You could either gasp for breathe after taking them in or pollute your inner conscious with purity, joy or laughter, because you never know which path will the nicotine take me through – destruction, inspiration, evolution, tension or happiness.

Oh god! Now I am struck again

The cursor has come to a halt and is staring at me once again

What to do?……

Well…..let me gulp down a glass of bear and start afresh. They say that few glasses down and the words start to flow out like water in an empty narrow lane. With alcohol by my side I am now on a creative ride. I am free from the shackles of that cursor that was an impending threat.

Hello there…..the drinking episode was just a figment of my own imagination because I don’t need a kick to trick my mind to pen down my thoughts.

Now that I have arrived here, I am confident that even without getting drugged even you can write a piece that satisfies your inner self and keeps you going through the motion of writing on the 8^th day of the year.

Ohh I am sorry….I made a wrong statement!

I just realized that even I am addicted, addicted to writing in solitude; solitude to whom I have attached myself deeply to the 8^th day of the year to write anything and everything in this world.

Get addicted to writing, because it will make you a better writer in the end.

Happy Writing!

The Table’s Soliloquy - Unplugged

Date: 27.05.2050

I was smeared with the dust of an abandoned entity so heavily that it formed a permanent layer of melancholy over me. It was easier for random hands to scribble over me as if I was a canvas to give shape to the whimsical thoughts and desires of an amateur artist.

 My body was still strong enough to shoulder the burden of hands that would rest vigorously over me, to be the instrument to dole out  beats to the songs that were hummed on a cold January evening, to be resistant against the accidental spill of the tea on a monsoon evening that erupted from the mixed humour of the reunion party, to be a part of the date that connected two souls for the first time.

Today, I sit in a museum and wander why the people of this digital world regard me as an archeological wonder or is it the illusion of of your virtual imagination?  

Miracles of Night

Fragments of past and present        

Create a sort of illusion as I wander

Through the gates of anxiety

They return every night

Carrying with them a veil of unconsciousness

That puts to rest my conscious mind

I take the flight of imagination

Whose wings widen farther with time

To embrace me into the clouds of dramatic moments

Chronicles of the past and a latest episode  

Create a saga of confused drama

Performed by artists wearing fake masks of greed and love

Voices of her who brought me on this earth

Repeat the truth again and again citing

“All expectation to reunite will go in vain”

I wake up with the truth, only to realize

Sometimes even dreams show us the right door