Creative Writing · prose

Rooted Feet and Ruminative Mind

There are times when the deluge of thoughts is so overpowering that the mind cannot help but wander off to strangely exciting and mostly unfamiliar territories. Yet, deep down, the acknowledgement of the fact that I am not a writer (not yet) is what gnaws the insides. The words get buried even before they are born. The loss is huge and it feels horrible.

But then again, there are times like these when the walls can no longer retain their strength against the madness, the avalanche of baseless pondering that deem everything inane, everything futile, and it makes me look like nothing but a ‘fool’- and that too of the highest order! But in this foolery, the words surface from their dust covered coffins. They seep out, spill over and start flowing relentlessly- of course, without a definite ‘course’ or ‘direction’. I guess it will take some time to attain that ‘direction’, or will, or talent- or everything at the same time, or nothing at all.

And as I gaze at the screen, the little black letters start making sense, at least to me. This is nothing but a vent- one which is necessary for me, and absolutely unnecessary for the readers. This is just the rant of a mind that needs more nutrition, more facts, more knowledge, more experience, more life and more time. And yes, above all, it needs inspiration.

When I read something good, something that captivates me with not just the potency of the context but also the brilliance with which the ideas have been crafted to form the narrative, I feel inspired. I feel motivated. And suddenly, the long-known fact that I am not a writer somehow takes a back-seat, and is often replaced by a question- “Why am I not a writer?” And then the gimmick of realisation- more life and more time- continually infiltrates my brain till the time I can actually feel my nerves go taut and my head go dizzy.

And all I am left with are questions. And more questions. And doubts that lead to endless deliberations. I seldom question their futility, and I always welcome them as a part of me, a representation of my being. I have been called ‘foolish’ and my thoughts have been identified (and mostly discarded) as ‘weird’. But do they not define who I am? And to be honest, I would any day prefer ‘foolish’ over ‘thoughtless’. I would any day prefer the sword than the shield. And I will go poking around every nook and cranny of my mind, and hunt out the most ridiculous of thoughts, and fling them around even if it creates a mess. And it is this mess that defines the order of my life.


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