Writing is a 'life line'. For some, it is a kind of drug. It's narcotic. And there are always some withdrawal symptoms if your pen becomes silent all of a sudden. It is painful for a writer to realise that her armoury might be at the risk of exhaustion.
I never knew how inextricably this PAIN lay tangled up with PEACE until I decided to refill my pen with the monsoon ink in the middle of the night.
Yes, writing is eagerness. Writing is passion. Writing is imagery. Writing is poetry. Writing is impatience. Writing is an urge. Writing is rage. Writing is fire. Writing is desire. Writing makes sure your ECG doesn't end up becoming a straight line so soon because if you can't hear your heartbeat aloud, then you're probably not living enough. But life is a juxtaposition of opposites. And if there's pain in shunning your desires, there's PEACE in 'not writing'. An unparalleled kind of peace. As if your entire universe stands silent in meditation. No turbulence in the stream... no ripples in the ocean... no ruffling of leaves... no crackling of thunder... This new-found tranquillity revealed itself to me like a blessing in disguise. Not because I had become any less of a writer. But because it dawned upon me that writing doesn't always do justice to life's little details. Some things are better left unexpressed... some words better left unsaid. There are some moments dyed in 'indigo' colour - that is invisible to the naked eye. And those moments need not be seen through a glass filter. 'Need not.' 'And should not.' It's an irony of sorts : While a soul seeks SOLACE in writing... it discovers PEACE in 'not writing'. A very subtle difference between the two! An interplay of oxymoronic schemes of life.
Interestingly enough, I ended up 'writing' because 'what can't be cured, has got to be endured!'
