I oscillate between being juvenile and profound like all lovers. For what is love if not purely sublime or downrightly stupid. There is nothing in the middle.
Last week I went through my blog and read all that I have posted in the past year and a half and couldn’t help but laugh at most of them. Especially the one’s written on the spur of the moment[which incidentally is the only way I know to write!!]. Certain posts are utterly mediocre and banal.
But then there are certain lines that are poetry at its best. Lines that literally slash your heart and make you cry tears of blood which in turn gives birth to the reddest of roses you’ll ever see blossom on your lips.
Like- “ I am the moon of her apathy.” Or “ Her absence is the lullaby that cradles my dream.”
These are gems. Lines that would make even a Tagore or a Rilke smile.
Now, I don not have any delusion of my self as a poet. In fact, I have always looked upon these things I write as scribbles. And hence call myself a scribbler. For I write mostly out of compulsion. And without a thought. Its more like automatic writing. There have been times when it has taken me a few days to understand certain things that I have written and certain lines are still beyond the realm of my own understanding as of today.
Certain posts I wanted to erase. Certain posts I wanted to edit. But then decided against it. For my blog is ME. And hence it should reveal me as I am. Why pretend that I am some God damn poet when I am nothing but an ordinary man recounting his experiences and recording his feelings.
So if by some stroke of mistake you do trespass into my blog and read it out of curiosity, remember- what you read here is what I am. With all my inconsistencies. The only consistent factor being LOVE. And ironically, human love has its own inconsistencies.
And a vagrant thought passes over the edge of my morning cup of tea.
“ Love is the greatest cook in the world.
It makes the best soul curry.”
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