Barren memories in a barren land…

I had a struggle, a struggle with self last night

Had another sleepless night

A baggage of memories, of him, that I was carrying

A burden of questions, unanswered

Some raised eyebrows and some inquisitive expressions

Those deep black pupils, evil

Those hairy white fingers, cold

His words, deceiving

  His silence, misleading

DISGUST is what the coward oozed

Excuses he made maintaining the cool

I let him free but tied myself

Became Orpheus, got stuck in Hell

Now each day passes snapping that deal

No amount of indulgence makes me heal

Last night I put all of them, all his reminiscences in a leather bag

I threw it in a dig, covered it with the soil

Buried it in the ground; no more toil.

Beheld it as the time passed by

Nothing grew out of it, not even a plant

Barren memories in a barren land                                                                            -i_duft

My Purpose

Creating... is NOT a piece of cinch! I wonder how God did it. Man! It requires passion, ideas, source, inspiration, endurance, and definitely time. I have read about the great Shakespeare. How did he manage to write such a colossal range of texts, which, by the way, are not just texts but holy books. He certainly had a craving for creating lives out of his characters. Creation, for them (the writers), was a pure phenomenon, just like music is to Lata Mangeshkar. I’ve heard that she starts her day with prayers and ‘riyaz’; nothing is more important to her than her music. She doesn’t sing to please others; in fact, she knows that each art form is purgatory and so she does her bit by making people let loose of all their anxieties and just relax with the help of her voice. That is her ‘Purpose’; her life’s calling; something that makes her happy. It’s like meditation.

That is what I intend to do too with my writing.