On writing and the angst of the words......

There is a feeling which escapes me as soon as I start on its trail...like stairs which disappear in small alleys, sleeping and yawning out of non-existence, yet reaching somewhere- we don't know where and to whose last house on the street...the trail creates its own path when the feeling escapes and sometimes I just feel that its a trick with words which plays out on the paper, its not me who writes but a trickster conjuring up images which I have not lived or which sieve through numerous stacks of books which stare bored in my direction and deceive me to a trail where one is caught in the absurd...the situation is not mine, the moments are not lived, the days emerge out of nowhere and the people dissemble their masks to wear another one, yet they are all very present there when I sit and write like a possessed idiot who garbles his own thoughts to escape them and just to take someone on the journey without announcing the destination...some do join, fellow travelers who want to be lost, who had already known that the destination they always cherished was the one which will throw them apart from the world, the reaching itself was a discontent, the pain which illusions create when they start living......in those moments one just lives when one has created rather than live to create.....the words seem to have broken the chains of memory, the dams of meanings and flood my papers seem to be coming from far and not from me- maybe here is the tiny gap which exist between those people who trick you with words, for they know at times even don't know whether it comes from them and those who know the words are coming from far and the only sense they will be able to make is when they have fully appeared on the paper. Both are not present in the moment when it writes itself and opens up its tenuous relationship with the writer, both chide us, bore us down, want to know their meanings, their appearance and their authors and their authentic experience of being, of why they are placed where they are, why they sit around with a word they don't like, why appear at a moment where nothing has a meaning...in a certain sense writing is to escape the existential angst of words, to give their absurdity a meaning and to conjure up an existence for them where they feel homeless, always willing to escape their temporality .....its in these moments where I know what I feel and what i set to write has been discarded, has been betrayed many times over, sometimes slaughtered and maimed on pages reeking and smelling of dying carcasses and corpses carried by the same words, all quizzically interrogate me as to why I had to enter their domain and why I twisted them and turned them apart where they are not to be....and these turnings themselves gives me a poem, a writing which I dint live but where and when will i live them or will it be something which does not exist always appear in the writing is to be seen.....

My rainbow

There is a weathered rainbow right across the horizon where the vision fades every day. It hangs along the mountains collecting fragments of colours and yet always remaining incomplete in itself. Rainbow always reminds me of train journeys which always failed to complete, the destination arrived before it was supposed to and yet one fails to get down. The journey, I forget to ask all the time, who started it and who was it travelling across the panorama of the mountains, blank fields, bridges, the steel frames- like unwritten memories they just space out themselves in unknown corners of the body. Each vision an awe, each sight a recollection, each bridge a surprise, each sound a melancholy of lost colours. The destination never arrives in the sight, its just the feel and the sound which warns us of the arrival, reminds us of the collectibles left scattered on the seats, left behind on the way in the weariness of the journey. Its these fragments which build the rainbow I see everyday before the moon peeps out, knowing or feigning its own loneliness in the journey where the stars seems all so close yet moving farther away, some already dead before any eyes could touch them. Like my half formed, half dying rainbow most of these stars are already dead and yet we never feel the strangeness of being surrounded every night by the dead. It only enchants us and wants to embrace us and we struggle with the ever growing mystery of this dying beauty. Are we also not the same? Dying all the time, in time, across time, burning bridges in memory, turning away from the past just to be us or be the normal person on the street. We escape the reality that we are one of them, just buying ourselves more time to be ‘someone’, that somebody we don’t know yet and maybe will never be able to know. Was it always a false start to begin with or are we all creatures of false starts, every start a wrong one, every start taking us away from where we want to reach or think we can reach. The destination is covered in mud and forgotten moss like a stone flirting with the coming waves, yet left thirsty to the next wave which touches it but never satiates it. The stone erodes away leaving some unknown being of itself as if living its time, living its own ‘shelf life’, obscuring its own being, not asking questions why it is there? Do destinations ask questions why they are pinned to the place? Why they ever engrave themselves on a map- be it the mind or an empty space on this earth?