“How can I claim my old bills”, that was all his coorporate slave friends could conjure up as a caption for a dp. He was dissapointed, and wanted to run away from all things corporate and shenanigans. He wanted to see the pure, unadulterated world free from dull shimmer of make-up.
There were times when he absolutely hated all things digital and electronic. He was the sad victim of altercation between his right and left brain lobe, like a silent child who shies away in a dark corner seeing his parents fighting. He delved in that corner for quite a long time, refusing to come out of his recluse. The harsh light from the bulb was scalding his eyelids, and however hard he clenched his eyelids he could not help them invading his privacy.
Thoughts flooded in like a well planned attack on an indomitable stone castle, and once inside they shattered the bricks and hoisted there ugly flag dark and high. His mind was not his own, for the army of thoughts devoured his silence, he laid there forlorn and helpless, like a last king of his goneby generation.  He struggled, he twitched , the more he resisited the more they deluged in.

He was on banks of Maa Ganga, sitting all alone and in his own silence on the desolate steps. It was getting dark, and sun succumbed and fell into the gentle waves of river. There was sound of water lapping and he remembered lines of Tennyson. “I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds”.

The book store at the entrance of ghat was his solace, the sweet aroma of paper, and rich history enticed him. He sat there looking dreamily at the books around him, imagining the cirsumstances under which they were wriitten, deciphering the reasons behind 100-200-300 pages and pages of words. What were they thinking when writing this particular page. Given a chance he could have written a book on the why a book was written.  He wanted to be elucidated on the story that led to story.   She recommended books in her accented yet flawless hindi,  he was piqued. The neat turquoise sari that she adorned added to the aura around her. She was recommending works of Ishiguro, and Murakami. Awed, all he could do was nod, and ended up getting two more books of soon-to-be-favorite author.

The unclear noise of the mic, bought him back from the bookstore. The click-clack of some construction work was monotonous and philistine. The hurdled voice that came over from fourteen floors down were unclear and clamorous. He wished to get back to cemented, forlorn stairs, and remain there undiscerned and at peace.

Amnesia for words :|

It isnt usually like this. Writers know that writing is their best fall back, but then taking a gap of 80 days to scribble something. It very well might be my longest gap. The inequities of fight between right and left brain is to be blamed.

I dont even gather how last days have been, yes ms got finished, gave exams amidst an ongoing internship, and then founders institute came in. It has been a rush, a mad rush. So all I can think for a post is a weekly chronicle. Not done dude !!

loading <Afflatus>…

I may write about Steve Jobs biography that I am halfway through, that yes Jobs was a asshole, and a sucker for his artistic taste, which made Apple so unique. Or the joy of seeing particle accelerator other day, it was a sheer eloquence of science. And then there is an infinite gyaan to be ushered on entrepreneurship, technopreneurship and startups. Behold. It is like pulling words from a tug-of-war with, well Hercules.

Or may be I should start delving on what is next from Ishiguro I should delve in? Or shall it be ‘the last song of dusk’, atleast the writing seems to be good. “but always listen to your balls”. Reminds me of Upamanyu Chatterjee. A customary visit to my table will reveal that I have nothing to read, except Mr Jobs, Ulysses – which I am always afraid to start, whether I will be able to do justice to the elegance of this masterpiece. And then ofcourse there is Startup Weekend, TI datasheets. <stop> And what the heck is DBC Pierre doing these days, cant he write something new 😐

May be I need another day or two of silence, away from world wide web or something. Or may be you can just concentrate here, instead of calling shenanigans. Oh so you google writers block, and get…

The only light came from the kitchen sink from the hall, it was rebellious and wanted to tear apart the dark and photon-derelict ambiance that the protagonist aimed to create. On the brighter side it created silhouette and shadows which gave a queer sense of belonging and he was lost in words.

He has been lying there on couch since morning, how could someone have missed him?  He frantically searched around on internet, and got some snippets for those lost at words.

“The scariest moment is always just before you start [writing]. After that, things can only get better.” – Stephen King
“Well, yes this has some logic”, and he rolled over his post to reconfirm. He wished to sign off from the post with a red marker, on a white board, when the smell of it intoxicates the owner for few milliseconds, and he stays in that transcendental trance state. The quick flex of metacarpals, <or is it metatarsal, some one from medical >and flourish of ego, and comes the signature. Too bad these stupid wordprocessors and online blogs dont have this.
So yes I sign off in less dramatic way with someone called Norman Mailer
“Writer’s block … is simply a failure of ego.”   Let me get my ego succeed and I will be back.

PS: For improved relevance replace writer with blogger, writing with blogging

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