This is a rough note I found scribbled on a piece of paper, tucked folded in my diary. It was probably written during one of those strict office deadlines to give a piece of writing. Well, procrastination or preparation, no one knows it better than the soul of a writer.
It’s beautiful how messy my life looks right before I sit down writing.
The avalanche of thoughts and ideas which have been keeping me jump with delight suddenly pale down like a winter silence.
I pour down a cup of water, uneasy and anxious. Ideas have never been a problem, executing them has always been. Of course, this is not because I am short of words. But yes, it’s because I am afraid of falling short of expectations- that of my own.
Travelling back and forth between meaningless rambling and moments of silence, I find a place to start in. I gulp down a sip of water, leaving the brink of white mug stained with pink strawberry lip balm.
I look around in the bitter-sweet symphony of confusion, unsettlement, and disappointment. There’s a thirst in my eyes begging for help- yet I look calm and composed like a city lake.
I fumble for words to throw life in my cobwebs of tangled ideas in my head. Taking long sighs and doodling kaleidoscope of aimless lines , I linger my painted nails on alphabets imprinted on black, plastic keys. These keys which probably have more power than I can imagine. These keys which will probably open the dusted locked doors of my mind to let the world take a walk in it.
Or who knows, give me a world to fly in.