Being a writer ..my God
Being a writer ..my God
Confessions of a writer.
God this is an open dialogue between me and you. You, my creator, why does creativity cost this pain...that it churns one's being to bring about the elixir of verses, pictures, sculptures, caricature.
I thy art ask you, my beloved, oh my God why thou fill pain, guilt losses, and blasphemy to mold the masterpiece.There is no art that escapes the golden mine of purification..burning in the fire pit of survival. But why thy venom you keep for the most innocent.
The gypsies the lost, the abandoned the fugitives the refugees....you find your target from any. The expatriate, the citizens, the locals, the criminals, you fish them out. The poet and the writer...my God why do you make them bleed for the child who Sickles the breat of the carcasses at the war front , you make them lament on the genocides, injustice, and suffering of fellow beings.
Oh my God ..this is a dialogue between me and you...why do you make love an infestation, a wound bringing out the light from within. You enjoy the letting go, you relish the giving up and then you rejoice in the lava of expressions, and you treasure it for centuries to see
Are we, the poets, the writers, the painters your left arm, your untrodden path, your forbidden truth ...your adoration that is a divine abomination ...my Master.
We speak for the silenced. We rise from decay and death to leave marks in history for this is a journey...an inferno and you need your landmarks ...to trade on it.
Oh my God, you lent sleepless nights..to bereave on the half-burnt, to grieve on the girl who ended her life on a piece of rope, or her marriage rob or on the farmer who took his life due to debts ....you make the writer roam on these streets...you make them hush their yelling in a shot of vodka ..you make them burry themselves to Sprout the best growth your garden. Oh my God ...
God, I have not stopped this dialogue, this course of the duet that I wanted to tell you do you keep asking Beethoven to kiss the lips of a leper to enter the kingdom of heaven and he make the notes as Mozart ...Great is thy exemplary preoccupations, thy extravaganza of blending tears with ink...
Oh my God....your generosity, your breathtaking opulence in making Dostyoevasky ....fight his epileptic neurotic fits...and write sagas ..of the old man and your sea of experiences...I don't question its audacity, nor I am devoid of my own share of madness ...you blessed me with.
Oh my God, why did you even ...quit the game ...throwing a Sita in a forest to prove your own righteousness and why did you walk away from Radha to sanctify the war front of Kurukshetra and why did you lay on cross open-handed...forgiving ...those who inflict pain
Why are thy examples, thy models watchwords for the writer?
Like a flower, I can wither away giving my fragrance to Breezes. Like the sun I can burn to bring light to the universe, till I end up a black hole. Like the earth, I could stand being ploughed, broken, and smitten yet providing, yet yielding ....but like the sky, I can thunder and explodes into rains of extinction and like Fire, I can wipe of generations ....century after century
Oh my God ...I am a writer...