Friday, September 19, 2014

Theres No Such Place As Far Away

When we said goodbye today, something inside told me it’s not forever.
I didn’t crash and my world didn’t fall down.
A part of me left me and went along with you as you walked away.

We are the sum of all the people we love, someone said once.
A lot of what I am now, are bits and pieces of you blended with so many others who have crossed my path.

Though I might or might not ever see you on one physical plane again,
On another we might have grandkids who we could tell stories of ‘when we were young and foolish’
Or we could, on a third, bump into each other in a few years at a bar in some obscure city, we both spoke of visiting once.

Change is inevitable. It just depends on the direction we spin it.

Memories get locked in little boxes. Faces fade. We remember sounds – of laughter. We remember the rough edges of fingers; the depth of eyes and how they look when someone wakes up in the morning and memoirs of scars on our skin that remind us of stories and conversations.

We never stop loving. Love just changes it’s meaning.
We can never hate or stay angry if we have truly loved.

The ones we meet on our spiritual paths,
Soul mates that hear our deepest, darkest fears.
The ones we bare our souls to.
They never go anywhere.
With them, love evolves.

Sometimes it comes back to where it belongs immediately.
And sometimes it remains unrequited for a while, smelling of bitter almonds. Till we find ourselves before returning to where we belong.

So as we say goodbye, unsure of what life holds for us next,
We know that somewhere on this planet will always be a person,
At the same time, at the same level.

Deep down we know, when we return to them, (because we will). It will all make sense.

Note: Smelling of bitter almonds, is a phrase taken from my beloved book - ' Love in the time of cholera'. 

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Why I Write

Magic with words
Writing is magic. Just like a magician weaves a world of illusion, writers create a realm in their mind where stories are created even before they are written on paper. The way clouds form in the sky, the sound of rain as it hits the ground or simply the emotion that is stirred looking at a person having coffee on the next table.
My life is a repository of memories – some vivid, some deeply entrenched in the deep recesses of the mind – to be delved into when the pen demands and spun like magic.
I write because of this gnawing, compulsive need in me that prompts me to express my memories. Whatever may be the reference point of the memory before I sit down to write about it the paper becomes an audience. I twist and adapt every word to create a story that spells magic on it. For this reason my writing does not stick to any particular genre as I experience and experiment with words.
The magical qualities of words excite me. I feel it when words flow from my pen as if they were meant to be. It is this magic that enthralls me and coaxes me to weave stories.
I write because I love writing. I write because there is magic in it. I write because I want to send my thoughts out into the world. I write because it completes me.

*Sharing an essay from my course assignment on why I write. I thought writing was difficult but editing what you write takes the cake! A few more essays to follow as I learn to make each sentence count. 


Related Posts with Thumbnails