Today, once again, i sat down to write. This time something deep, meaning, words that will touch hearts and churn souls. Lines that will make readers stop for a while, stare at the wall and resume with a smile of satisfaction. Today i will not borrow lines from the novel i read last or those posts on Facebook with beautiful quotes and a picture but words, pure like the smell emerging from the ground after an evening rain. I am afraid it wouldn't rhyme if i write a poem or even hide meanings behind a line of four words, those that can enchant and exhilarate. But i like to write. Perhaps it makes up for the times i hid myself with words buzzing but lips sealed. The last birthday i didn't wish or the unheard congratulations which i meant very much or even the last meeting with my friend where i was meant to be jolly and share a smile more but left scratching the table instead. What is it with things that never happened but just with you. It happens with everyone else and almost every time. If you could just be as comfortable with that new guy or even the helper at the airport as you are with a pen and paper. Be as peaceful as with old dusty books.
When, a dark corner with just enough light to lit a page gives you the feeling of dancing in the rain but while shaking a leg you are the most conscious being on the planet. You can speak your heart out on a piece of paper like you have nothing to hide but a pair of eyes other than your own sets you thinking. Yes, they have a term for this. They call them the INTROVERTS- the ones with the purest hearts, is how i like to decode . For they are not maligned, and while you judge and pass opinions they just don't care. Not because they don't care but because they actually do. And even while writing they write just enough to satisfy themselves and care more about the full moon or the colors. Honestly, i wouldn't mind if you would call them selfish for that is what they seem. They should be, because their writings are often filled with more of I's than any other vowels and they present themselves as the Centre of the universe with all things revolving around them. For what else could it be that they neither talk nor smile and seem so engrossed. For why would anyone always occupy the last seat and look out of the window or hid behind a book. And smile at silly conversations without actually having to
say anything, just imagine that clumsiness.
But wait, what if a single line could justify all of this accusations and even more?
No! You are wrong i haven't come up with that line yet.
Had it been so i would have presented it at the very outset and not dragged myself in and out all these lines.
After all these, why is it that you like these people with the purest hearts - THE INTROVERTS. Its because you are one of them. I wonder if that makes a different community. But now i just wonder if i have written enough to bring it out all, everything that would make for a small explanation, or for an identity that i care the last about.
Just like that.
