Not you...

O Dear! It is not you I wish to see, not your body, not your eyes, not your vine walking hips.  How quizzical it is to say I searched around to see you but you are not the one I wanted to see.  How malevolent it is to say that I walked behind you to see you but you are not the one I followed. To embrace your flying hair is a part of my dream but it is not you who I dreamed of. Perplexing! Like the love for the light but the hate for the warmth of the Sun, it is the warmth of keeping you around but the heat of the sun is not something to be with. You are not the Sun of my light to hate; you are not the heat to scorch my fate. You are the needle to make a hole in my heart to vent out the fumes of the burning soul. It is a search for the soul mate; may be you, may be not you but the search is always on.

The image of you is what I wanted to see; the image of you as I had in my heart.  Not every time the image in my heart matches with the real; reality is different most of the time. Those fingers that muddled with mine were that something I was searching for.  The eyes that stopped my lashes to kiss each other were that something I was looking for.  The sway of your hips that made my eyes sleep was something that made me insomniac. O dear! It is not you. The ‘you’ in my heart is different from you.

The 'You' - She is an heir of Ishtar, the kiss of the sun light on the dew drop, the blue of the sky and the sea, the chilling crescent moon and the diamond star.  O dear! It is not you.

She appeared in glittering golden wardrobe, with the walk of the sway of a vine. Holding a cup of water in hand, she blessed it with her twin wands, her lips, to make it an elixir that makes any mortal an immortal. Looking at her sweating forehead I blew my breath to chill her skin.  But I do want not those little diamond drops on her forehead to disappear.  Angels sweat; that was news for me. For the music in my mind a bunch of her hairs danced over her cheeks; hiding her beauty a little.  She draped it behind her ear.  With her touch those bunch of hairs lied behind her ear mesmerized.

In competition with the butterflies, she winked her eye lashes and thus those butterflies sat on her cheeks thinking there were two already for honey.  I am not innocent to think like a butterfly but all I see is an inverted sun-rise when she closes her eyes and an upside down sun-set when she opens.

O dear! It is certainly not you I want to see.

Who is a writer?

I am just thinking what are all my writings were and are.  And only I know those are forgotten memories, jotted allegories, sleepless nights, dreamed days, long trodden roads, mystified sins, encrypted visions, love, lust, broken relationships, unsatisfied wants, jealous, crime, pride and lack of words.  There is no reason I write, not even one, but something pulls me towards that eternal pen, wear the hat of a writer and get drenched in the falls of words.

It is all about beauty to arrange many words in order to form a sentence with no mistakes and read it out to make some sense. But that is not writing is all about, at least up to me. Mistakes are acceptable, juggled words are manageable, errors in spelling are changeable, but what makes a word or a sentence or paragraph as a writing is what the writer puts in to it. It is the special ingredient that makes the food delicious. It is the drop of poison that makes the entire body die, it is a piece of his heart, be it broken or not, that a writer adds makes it a writing.

Every word is a pain, every word is a pleasure, those are neither be created not be destroyed like energy. They just exist. Words chooses its writer, the story choose its teller.  The beauty lies in the words of the beholder.  Only the most experienced one with the life can be a writer, words are blood oozing from the scars; happens only to a writer.

If it takes hundred colors to paint a picture, it takes only one for a writer for art is words in colors and writing is colors in words.  Everything is a fiction, for a writer, everything is a fantasy be it real or virtual. He puts in the character he lives with and he lives with the character he framed.  Next to God if somebody can change the characteristics of somebody is a writer.  He changes them to have peace with them.  The character could be killed mercilessly when he no more could handle; you cannot punish the writer.

A writer is not a wild animal which gets satisfied with its stomach full.  He is cruel than those, crueler than any hunter, wilder than a man eater. Given him the poison he changes it to elixir if it tastes good for him; present him the elixir that tastes bitter he changes it to water.  A writer never completes his work, when he feels that something he wrote is complete then he will be no more a writer.

Perplexity is his attitude; solitude is his mannerism, to see the unthinkable is his style.  A writer sees the world with his third eye, the all-seeing-eye.