Someday I feel I will write an essay. Words should have the luxury of coming in twins, build a locality of its own. Poetry for them is a lonely space. Each preciously used to carry out a task ( we call meanings) and until they are done, pretend as if they are someone else. Metaphor, some call it. I wonder if I will ever be able to shred the too many 'I's I use in an I-tem. If ever I can live upto to write what is non personal. Something that talks about trees, seas, mountains, hills, Sun and the moon and for a moment reserves the blunt knife for some blunt-er souls ( like me ofcourse, no offense to you). Reality has come into halves all my life. I have dreamt the other. Like the conventional glass case, I have measured the half empty moments of life and treasured the half fulls. For a strange optimist I have been, the reason for pessimism has also been the same. I know people who invent ways to sadden themselves. There is a strange negative energy to it, a sense of security in ...
Some Memories are hard to hold on So I put them on words.