A Writer's Soliloquy ...

The whole kaleidoscope of last year left me with a mixed feeling. I am not sure whether I could call it good or bad. A bouquet of fragrant flowers with a few thorns here and there, a bunch of laughter mixed with some incoherent sobs, some gains, a little losses, deep velvety love with a vivid lining of palpable hatred; everything together engulfed me, leaving me satisfied, pleased, yet wanting a little more, longing for a few more.

The whole year went by, with scripting cursive, sculpting words and chiseling sentences, trying endlessly to rein my storm-wild thoughts and my rainbow-hued dreams that always soar higher and higher, much above, and then keep circling menacingly hovering over like a hunter bird.

Through out the year we kept meeting only in my poems and inside my stories where we were happy despite the oddities of the world. I continued to unload the burden of my psyche in between the fissures and creaks of my writing, in the process, carving a niche, a cozy, loving home for us, silhouetted by the warmth of alliteration and rhetoric prosodies.

At times the day-to-day chores or mundane problems, a vegetable price hike, an angry exchange of words and a lost school note book or a strip of crocin tablet, banality of bills would overpower in the garb of an everyday fiend, challenging the honor of my soul. Yet soon after, just a fresh bout of drizzle or a pale Autumn Moon and a fluttering butterfly or even that bird who visited me on my verandah, the bird who has a green color that resembled a banana leaf, would be enough to put my mind at ease. And then I wrote again; I wrote about you, your love, your anger, your caresses and about the day you left. It is strange how I could never get tired writing about you. It was as if the blank note book in front of me was like a virgin canvas and after I tied it secured on the easel I was ready with my pen to flash and spray all the myriad colors of promises and disappointments, diverse patches and blotches of grief and laughter and once I started, just about anything was possible.

And now at the end of the year, and at the advent of beginning a whole new one, I have decided to stop being perfect. My over anxious nature to put everything in its right place and vacuum cleaned rooms over the years taught me that perfection has nothing to do with happiness. Now the clutter around me along with my open note book and pens and the computer that I so often forget to switch off and fall asleep almost over the key board, my messy room, all together exude a warmth that envelopes me like a soft shawl against the chill winter of the world.