sound of silence

I have no wise cracks to make, no sponteneous poems to bake, no revelations to fake, to inner search and self exploration take.. today.

a fake life

It was like a dream within a dream.
Hers was an existence,
just a memory on an ancient one,
reflection within reflection within reflection.

Everything borrowed, everthing snitched.
Everthing forgotten, skeleton of rememberance,
Somewhere withing the skeletons,
Lied a worm, gnawing day and night.

A phantom soul, everychanging.
From books, to books, to books of life,
Two dimensional everything,
Except perhaps, the worm.

One day, she decided to cure herelf of it.
She arranged the bones, anatomically perfect,
Plucked out the worm and set it on fire,
For an instance, she felt the hell inside her.

Nebulas, Update on the book and restlessness that doesn't seem to end

I am listening to blues and staring at the screen. Writing doesn’t come easy to me. I have to fight for the words. The thoughts that form inside me, if they were objects with real weight, volume and force, my insides would be a huge wreck. I know this. They roll and rumble, sometimes, growl and thunder, sometimes explode! And to form words for those thoughts and jot them down, type them here is like waging a war against myself. It’s bloody. However, I love doing it.

When I write and click that post button, I know I am opening yet another small window through which the whole world can see the inside of me. I will be vulnerable and open to judgments. I would like to do it anyway. Perhaps, I have a streak of an exhibitionist!  I like to share thoughts, because these are not just mine. We are all interconnected, I do not write for myself only.

I have not been doing much lately, just printing images of universe, nebulas, blue daisies, horses and warrior princesses and sticking them all over the walls of my room. While I lay back in my bed, I like immersing myself in them.  “The Book” is stalled for the moment because there is another story brewing that has been grabbing my face and forcing me to look at it. I know I should at least do the second draft of ‘The Book’ as it is pretty much shaped and structured. I need to end it. But the end is just not becoming..

I still get dragged to some distant hill and I still feel the restlessness of Mr. V that follows him in his journey..  He is still searching.. and I feel that angst. And unless this feeling is over, I know the story is not over at all..