Writing is Like Time

A kaleidoscope of world comes together, shimmering like a rainbow spilling colors in the sky. A dream, an image gone berserk, strange music quivering for form- I have no idea how I describe my urge, my passion for writing. When I get to write about my childhood, I am transferred into a land of gay abandon fusing with fragrance and flavor, beauty and colors, happiness and pain and … nostalgia. I remember my college, the library, the tall mahogany book cases filled to the brim with books. I felt like the much awaited Indian Monsoon who is always welcomed.  Somehow in those inanimate surroundings, I could hear a whisper alive as though summoning me for a furtive romance, a tale of love and fulfillment, of lingering agonies and reverberating joy. I felt myself lost in those golden mirages and like a poet drunk with opium of life I wanted to scream aloud, “Let me be here!  In these shadows of pleasure.” The warm afternoon sun emanated from the tall windows submerging the room in an ocean of delight. I don’t remember how many hours I spent, lost like the wayfarer in a jungle of amazement. Yes I am talking about my experience of reading. I firmly believe that reading and writing are twin sisters, the more you read the better writer you become. No, I am in no way claiming to be a better writer because this world of writing is an unexplored horizon questioning its very own dimensions. The more you tread its boundaries, the more does its border expands. It is like the old adage which says that that sometimes the journey is more enjoyable than the destination. Yeah there are no destinations for a writer; writing always remains a journey with new twists and turns, new fields and dimensions. And herein lays the utmost beauty of this journey. A journey with overlapping landmarks. Yet this journey is different from others. Here you grow and metamorphose, you stumble upon your own life and experiences. You are taken aback by your own reflections. Unfounded, unusual forms attach themselves to you without even your knowledge. You grow altogether as a different person in your writings yet maintain the core. Writing is wonderful. It is more than love. It spills out of the dictates of discipline inflicted by culture or cult. It retains everything you grow up with, yet overgrows everything. You cannot say writing is life. It is more than life. It does not end. Like the torchbearer in a relay race handing the torch to the other, writing picks up different hands and different pens. It defines history. It shapes present. It writes future. It is the Oracle, like the Time.