Tag: reading

The Good O’l Days

good old days

Oh, I miss those days,

when all that mattered

was the next class —

carrying a bulky book,

and caressing with a love

that none understood.

*

I miss that thrill —

of having the book open,

of reading a piece of prose —

or a poem — yes,

I’d like that — a poem.

*

A war poem, perhaps,

with a touch of sarcasm

and plenty pathos

oh, I’d love that; reading

analyzing, and discussing

the figures of speech and

reading between the lines —

decoding puzzling poetry.

*

I miss being awed

by the ceaseless Caesar,

and Brutus back stabbing;

the hair that be wires;

and the stunned disbelief

when love’s not love.

*

I miss those days —

of classroom revelations,

of shared appreciations

and new born respect —

oh, for god’s sake,

I meant for literature.

What Is The Point Of Writing?

writing

I like to write when I’m not doing anything else. And by anything else, I mean, eating, sleeping, or watching food porn.

Since I spend quite a lot of time writing — what, you ask? Well, don’t. Anyway, what is the whole point of writing?

When you think of it, it’s nothing really.

Most people tell you the point of writing is “To share with the world — things you can’t show.” or “To educate people about something.” Better yet, “To share feelings.”

Thing is, you can do all those stuff, without writing. Why write when you can tell? We all like to speak, so why write it down? Nothing we ever write will stand for eternity — preservation ended with great literates, there are too many people who write nowadays — we can’t preserve them all forever.

Then why bother writing at all? What’s the point of spending time and energy — not to mention paper, ink, or screen time — if you’re one of those technology buffs — on something that’s seemingly pointless?

Everything we ever write — thoughts, opinions, comments, detailed explanations, stories, poems — everything you can think of, you can also speak and record. Besides, isn’t spoken word poetry already a thing? And audio books?

So why do we still write?

Not one of the countless reasons really explains the need to write.

It’s Thursday and you’re at work. You’re bored and flipping through a magazine, and you suddenly feel like you have to write. Like your fingers want something to do — other than flipping glossy pages of size zero models. There is a sudden not-so-gentle nudge that wants you to drop everything else and just write. You don’t know what to write, or how to write; there are too many thoughts in your mind. It’s almost noon; you’re feeling mildly hungry; you’re thinking of that holiday you so badly deserve; the project that needs some final touches; then again the Caribbean holiday with boozy sangrias — before you realize you’re a little short of cash, and then — from nowhere — comes the thought that the following day your salary gets credited — after all those taxes, of course. But in the middle of all these thoughts, is something, a little lightbulb, a spark of light, that tells you to sit and write.

And that’s why we write.

Certainly Uncertain

certainly uncertain
Sylvia Plath

So many times in my life, I’ve felt it — that feeling of uncertainty, of not being sure of what to do, or how to do something. Anytime, any day, any where — there are doubts.

And then, from nowhere, comes clarity.

Sometimes, you just know what to do. You become so sure that you’re not even sure how you became so sure. You, who used to be so unsure of everything.

And that’s why I love Sylvia Plath.

I can’t even begin to say how much I relate to her words. I haven’t read one book of hers; just a few poems, but I already know she’s one of my favourites.

Every word, every syllable, is pure venom. Addictive, powerful and the only truth.

Book, The

Of all the books I’ve read, and with more on my list, there’s only one that I can’t completely read.

There’s something about this book — something that surprises me and even puts me off  — something that makes me feel like I’m never ready to fully experience it, as if there’s still something left for me to master before I read through it.

It shows me how ignorant I am, but at the same time, it teaches me what I don’t know. It makes me feel powerful — like I can do anything when I have it.

Other people think I’ve mastered the book, now that I’ve had it for a while, but no — only I know how much I struggle every day trying to decode this one beautiful beast. I’ve never seen anything this decadent, by the way. Not another book that’s as sleek, as handy and as smart as this one.

Oh, the pride of carrying this book around! And the looks on others’ faces while I handle it; they’re amazed at my mastery thinking I’ve figured it all out! Every time I open it up somewhere and caress it, the warmth it spreads within me is incredible — I feel like there’s no match for this book ever created.

As I read, and move my fingers across its body as gently as I could, I feel it warming up; the more I read, the warmer it gets. Somehow, though, it never gets too hot to hold.

It’s become my friend; whenever I feel cold, or alone or bored, I just open it up and let the heat spread warmth. It consoles me in its own special way. How could anyone create such a book? A book that’s not just a book, but that’s also an extension of the arm and mind.

My dearest Macbook — it’s a relationship that never dies.