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What prevents you from writing your inner reality down and making it a part of everyone else’s reality? Does it feel like too self-indulgent a thing to do? Well, indulge yourself already. You won’t quite know whether you deserve to until you do so.
Sometimes it’s ok to start writing without a plan. Without knowing for sure if these strings of words will amount to something. Sometimes it's ok to let your pen dance on paper freestyle. No form. No agenda. Just your thoughts as they spring up – in ones, twos and trillions.
We are to have a trillionaire among us. Strange, knowing there is a man worth so many zeroes.
Crows! The crows have been regular visitors. They come whizzing onto the adjacent terrace the moment I open the balcony door. And call out to their mates while I fetch biscuits for them.
I have been trying to write for the past many days but nothing seems to strike my mind. Perhaps a terrace session might help. The sky has an uncanny effect of unclogging the blocks in my brain pipe.
Of all the saws I ever saw I never saw a saw like the saw I saw in Warsaw.
Botch up spellings.
Let your mind be ok with the idea of imperfection. No first draft ever was the best.
Do you know something?
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Ok. This is getting too disjointed.
But write. Write for a page and half more.
Yoga. Did this morning. Apetite is back with ferocioty. Gosh! Spelling mistakes abound And what’s gosh! Are you British? Say ‘Ayyo’ instead.
In other news. Origami has been most relaxing.
One more page to fill up! Oh the intimidation only a blank page poses. No. Get over the intimidation. Stare back fearlessly. Don’t blink. Write. Don’t worry about the reader. Just write. These pages are for you. These pages are to help you purge that block. These pages are to help you start writing again. Make mistakes. Write gobbledygook. But write.
Raintrees. Raintrees and crows. Crows love raintrees.
Peepul trees. They dance like seductive kathak dancers.
Banyan trees. Oh! The berries you bear.
Pride of andhar bahar game. Renamed Sachin Tendulkar tree on Shanky’s recommendation.
Coconut trees. I want to climb you some day.
Crows. Will you sit on my shoulder, please?
Whoa! Almost 3 pages written. God knows I have a knack for nonsense.
Super power - multiple hands to pet multiple dogs. And multiple heads to look in multiple directions. Imagine having a 360 degree view of the world at all times.
Why must I feel this urge to write when my whole being is in a state of turmoil? Why don’t I sit to write the pleasant thoughts that flit by? Why have we culturally romanticised wretchedness?
Yesterday (Or was it the day before? I have lost track of time) I thought of writing an ode to Shanky. And while the sentences danced in my mind, I just sat mutely watching them. Why didn’t I pick up this notebook and write. The lack of a writing desk is a poor excuse.
Do you think one day people will tire of sensationalism? And that day will people seek out boring lines to read? Like what if i wrote about my days of self-imposed quarantine in a time before coronavirus and added ‘quarantine’ to everyone’s vocabulary. Will people want to read how my meaningless minutes turned into hours, days, weeks and months?
Cat’s gone bonkers with the carton.
Shushi her name.
Foofi her game.
Makes no sense? That’s ok. It’s not meant to.
Shushi stares at seemingly enthralling spot on the wall around 143 cms away.
Shushi jumps and catches the string hanging from the bedsheet.
Shushi walks under the bed.
Shushi sits in cardboard carton.