Autoimmune Flare/Recovery/Writing Life
Indie
Quiet Clouds, Sleepy Cafe, Catching the Ray
M y need for independence is a double edged sword.
There are days I need to stay away from every routine that becomes unbearable and then those very moments want to hold on things the routine enlists.
Coming back to my writing hours is my cherished wish but writing because I have to finish a piece for a week makes my enthusiasm curl up and take a nap inside my shell.
My vicious hatred for dictation often pits me against myself, when one part of me looks for the honey while the other raises its stubborn head not allowing the follow.
The me(s) in me are at constant war making sure no one goes above par.
From outside it may look like an act of balance, but I want that pointer to move left and heavy every single time.
I know its time to make my fingers jingle but I choose to daydream.
It is an easy choice when your health leaves you.
When your familial responsibilities stand as a smoke screen between you and your words.
When you simply don’t want to come back to writing for some days.
For writing needs space, it needs time to spread yourself under the sky, stare at it for hours and choose a few unique moments to bunch and release on paper.
They are moments that feed your daydreaming earth, like shoots they grow out of the dark, birthing fruits that hang low.
You bring them near, hold them in your gutted palm, close your eyes and smell them for hours, your olfactory path leaves in its presence
as if you existed for the fragrance
as if the scent was born for you.
These moments are like old rocks, dead but living, static but changing with time.
You flip through the pages of poetry, seeping in the wonder, feeling sad how those creative jerks elude you, impatient you can ever come back to your table of words.
Mornings come and go.
Clouds like diaphanous sheets of white cotton glide over the azure, teasing wind whistles by.
You can hear their heart beat.
On the spur, you are aware of your body, you hear your heaving chest.
The mild sine curve of breath within knocks your shiftless inside — it turns side.
Cheek pressed on the contours of the fingers, creating impressions on the war-torn skin.
In another world you are spruced with health, dribbling a ball with your pain-free legs, moving fast with your writing mind as she scribbles away to her delight…..
The sun blooms like a flower, hi-fives every tree that looks up, criss-crosses the wind which plays with battles and melodies.
Afternoons come with its shocks and rain, soaking and dripping, find home in leaves and grass. Tasteless grey sky looking for rainbows to break and scatter, spelling colour and freedom.
Sky filled with birds and planes moving in the direction of their home, negotiating with the breeze, friction and restlessness. I take that ride.
The city below in slowly lighted as stars float in the navy ocean, now clear and rain-free, holding the shadow of a crescent moon.
Sun the light-man behind the wings, left in orange, setting the stage on fire.
It’s time to mellow its glow and gift the world its serene.
The glory of night shines through its absence.
A perfect epitaph to a ruined day peopled by honks and screeches of interrupted thoughts and mind pulling at amnesty — a daydreamer’s nightmare.
I loathe writing in a hurry to finish or when my inner world is not in synchronicity.
It is strange I did not want to write. Yet I wrote this piece.
The struggle for independence and that Indie me….
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness — Virgina Wolf
P.S — However I dislike writing on certain weeks /days coming back to writing overcoming my procrastinating self is the best feeling in the world. As of now.
Sequel to: My-Hospital-Stay
Continuing with Simply Three, my go-to band of late.
I love it when the cover infuses its own uniqueness and makes the original shine.
A cello/bass/violin cover for ‘Counting Stars’ by One Republic.
Yeh I needed it and I think you too — Enjoy:)
