Write, right??

The mind had made itself up, there was no going back again; no more would I coerce myself into doing something I wasn’t enjoying, writing was one such activity. But, activity it wasn’t; it wasn’t a pastime either, it had been my form of expression. To vent, to let out and to let go too; to think and to put my thoughts on paper. I have been driven by and driven into writing by a whole lot of things, initially it were me seeking a way out, it was then a person who’d go on to inspire me with her presence. Her expression found it’s way into mine, and She went on to become whatever I could think of writing.

But, life changes in the blink of an eye: but the passion to write? It did take a backseat, but with undercurrents of someone’s presence running deep within your being , you know to yourself that there’s no escape from it, you can choose to resist yourself from the temptation of turning back, but who has ever been able to control the galloping stallions of his thoughts? not me certainly!! And, thus back to expressing the way I could possibly do, and do it the way I have forever known: to write. To think, to seek, to find; and to write.

Life hadn’t been a Dickensian tale, now it is: perhaps Dickens too had been party to my tale; he did push me into amplifying whatever I had been through and to assume as if it were part of a cosmic conspiracy leading me towards something that would be heart wrenchingly beautiful. Estella had knocked on my heart’s door: and it were the beginning of a tale that would define the enchantment that lied in unfulfillment.
There’s no love greater than the love for something you’ve lost, and when the heart pines for that one thing which had once made up for everything else: you know there’s some content left in you, something more to think, a lot more to write. The best part of writing about someone who now seems elusive is that there’s no dearth of words, there remains no boundary defining the limit of your imagination.

And, this is sheer bliss!! To capture and to contain that one gigantic thought, mould it in her form and cast it as She were: this is my expression, perhaps the truest one.
Thoughts never lie, you can’t lie to your thoughts and that’s exactly what it does each time She catapults herself in mind, slinging and swinging and capturing herself, by herself and landing up on my fingers as I type the words down: I find her, elusive She is; in form maybe, but there’s another level of high in chasing the formless.

So, I choose to write, write all that I had known and shall think of, I would have thought of and thoughts She would sow in my mind. The pen’s out, the paper has lines written over them and my expressions: She’d have known better.