2017

2017

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

Dear Diary: A dear friend



As I am typing this, my fingers running across the keyboard hard and furious, I know you will never see this. Not now, not ever. I see you moving on to better things in life and I know that when the sun rises, I would once again be tempted to delete this post. I would try with all my might to pretend not to feel the pangs of nostalgia I am feeling with such intensity now, pretend to be strong, pretend that I too, have moved on. 

And the truth is, I have.

But that doesn't change the fact that I still think of you, every once in a while. And when I do, I really miss you. I do. Never did I realise as I lay on your shoulders, ranting to you about other people, that you were my pillar of support, giving me strength and providing me the backing that I so desperately needed. In some sense you were the loudest yet the most silent presence, one that I took for granted... then you were gone.

You taught me how to see myself as a real person, told me I was beautiful without make-up on. And as you embraced me as a whole person,  I learnt to embrace myself too. I smiled and learnt to laugh, at the silly way life turns its tables on me and curiously, even at myself. A whole novel dimension of this world was made visible to me because of you, and I marveled at things that I never before thought possible.

A dreamer, you always were. And as you held my hand, I felt like I could dream too, that I could fly, and it was the most marvelous feeling in the entire world. But then I fell for a second, and then you were gone, pulled away into another realm all together. Frantic, I called after you, but you never answered.

And as I watched the shadow of your back fade into the distance, smaller and smaller, I knew you were gone forever. 





Thursday, 9 July 2015

Dear Diary: Forget me not

I had forgotten how it felt like to write. To write, for me. Not for academics or for want of appraisal and endless eulogies from learned men and women, but for myself. The pen lied limp with my worn fingers, and I could not find the strength as I once did, to convey my mind through the au fait medium of language. The novelty once beguilingly magnetic, was lost --and with it, my mind.

Once, I read that good writing betrays good thinking. I could not disagree, for I was acutely aware of my own writing, almost a perfect parallelism of my mind. Unhinged, adrift, but ever inquisitive, full of anticipation come whatever may.

But as my eyes flickered to behold in reverential silence the abundance of novelists, poets, and authors, I was again overcome with a most pellucid view of what I would like to be, addressed not as a blogger but as a writer. Yes, a writer. The word idled at the tip of my tongue, leaving a lingering aftertaste that could nearly be described as saccharine.

Language throughout times ancient, medieval, and even present has never failed to command a certain degree of presence, heavy with history, suffused with deep meaning. The love for language and writing has always been something possessed within myself that I could not (in fact I cannot) quite describe, even as everyday neologisms present their magical meanings, painting a resplendent picture of art.

A writer.

Could I ever be? Yet in the deluge of composition originators I heard a still voice breathe, barely a whisper.


"Forget me not."



"I won't." I whispered.





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