Chronicles of a Writer.
I have known HER for quite a long time now.
How wearying it is to know her, in fact anyone at that, yet it is such a deviation from the normal that looks surprising.
She sits there on the couch, cozily, sipping the coffee from the mug that gets cold everyday, attends the sunshine with an ill-matched falter as well as greetings with her furious eyebrows and laughs with her untidy hair as if its a blessing from the God to its favorite child. She is the very commonly encountered definition of existence and yet a paradox in her own little ways.
Her scratched nails, the disorderly bed, neatly kept books, the only pen in the box - all speak of her messy soul but not the tiny tales that could be unraveled with a vigor investigation of the uncertainties. She is the magic that winds its thoughts to bring life. She speaks like it’s the last conversation, She looks like she’s stabbing with a knife, She whispers like the arrival of autumn and she dreads like a fatal calamity - all for the existing passion in every little pore of hers.
People call her mad; mad because she seeks The Deep. She craves for the dance that change lives, for the flowers that make people feel beautiful, for the happiness that looks frightening, for the truth that does not come with a cost, for the lies that only intends to bring a surprise and to write for an absolute freedom. Yes, People call her mad; mad because she dreads responsibilities and likes butterflies. Because her Smaller Sins are more in number than the Bigger Sins. Because she is a tiny tiny little being with the burden of a very huge heart. And because for her, the only World she wants to go back in is in the protective womb of her Mommy.
Yet Mommy calls her irresponsible all the time cause She forgets, misses and loses -
Dates. Schedules. Things. But not - Words. Adventures. People.
Wonder why I say these?
Because I have known HER for quite a long time now.