As if lost in the wilderness, sitting solitary, counting stars, thinking of things never thought before, overwhelmed with stark dark, in a room no better than a refuge, obsessed with the astounding silence of night, with a pen and paper in hand, headphones rolled over the ears, music in the background, oblivious of what is being listened to, writing in the dark, no idea what, but writing. And, still as if doing nothing!
The pal’s already set to sleep, lights switched off, no wish to turn them on either. For, it feels blithe to be in the dark, everybody loves it; everyone’s in the dark. Some know it, others know not.
I want to write and writing in the dark, without even a second thought. Writing extempore has its own charms. Yes. I want to write, I really do. Should darkness keep me from doing? Never going to let it do. Nothing is going to hold. So, here I am, writing. Writing what? Nothing actually. Funny as it sounds it is. But still writing. Maybe it’s because, want slumber to stay afar. And keeping engaged serves the purpose.
Lo! Just noticed this computer screen. Keyboard lying at an arm’s length. And I want to write, and write in distress of the dark. Type, should I? But I won’t type either. Writing over typing, always. Notwithstanding most of the work lately, I often do with keyboard, still prefer Pen and Paper over Keys and Screen. Especially when want my mind to vomit, to speak my mind, I mean. So, writing in stark dark.
Darkness baffles me, however. It still has its own mysterious mystic magnificence. I have no idea where I am heading but the important thing is I am. Writing, I still am.
Hey wait! Is it a waste of time, when one doesn’t even know what they are doing or where they are heading? Nay, not so.
An utterly unsung and unheard voice echoes which says, everything one does is indeed worth something if nothing. The activity needs to be there, that is all what matters. It nevertheless may sound purposeless for reasons very apparent, but anything involving some activity has latent perquisites, much significant. Action is important, it’s lively. Stagnation is lifeless, tedious as death.
Tonight’s object is to write. Good, bad or trash, that is all secondary.
It is setting off for sweet sojourn that is more important rather than day-dreaming; of flowery paths. Or dreading barriers and bottlenecks, and never even kicking off for the journey.
So here I am, flowing with the wind, at its utter mercy. Where ever it takes, all set to be driven away. Like a leaf that sets itself free; keeps rolling and rustling with the wind; and damn cares about its destiny. Destiny, after all it’s bound to be. Therefore my pal! Ending up somewhere is way better than being nowhere, don’t you feel?