Is he a lunatic, a promising gentleman, or a half-hearted human? I do not know, nor will I dwell in those judgmental inspections of his personality, as I have met him in words – the words underlying his numerous abnormalities, eccentricities, and complexities.
I somehow know a writer let loose his painful pangs inside the writings, but he is different in so many ways I cannot count on my fingers. Each of his words is veiled in wires of sanguine suspense. The more I read him, the more I lose the atlas of my own thoughts. We have no spatial dimensions in common. All I know is that reading him flowers my petty imaginations.
I, at times, picture him holding a pen between his fingers, and other times I paint him setting off his dusty lashes on the pages of Dan Brown’s thrilling fiction. I so much long to see how words oscillate on his starched paper when a stormy breeze sews hails at his pores. I wish that one night I could explore his wonderland like Alice and sneakily see his eclipsed soul squeezing downpour from the pomegranate sky.
He often calls himself in his poems ‘A Man of steel’ or a citizen of “Vampire Land” where human corpses are cheaper than ashes, but still his syllables carry the enticing flavor of divinity.
What keeps his emotions equilibrated, I wish I could ever know. How does he extract…
