Rustling sound driven to the ears by a tender breeze, a guest whom we never dare to ever question, on a radium lit night, pull the mildest of the strings in your heart. A glistening round ball pasted in the glittering night sky beaming rays of light of romance, provoke you to dream of an art that you ought to own. A piece of art that you wish to effortlessly transcend into reality. Is writing that art that not ceases to gleam so naturally? Is writing so effortless? It is not. Writing is a struggle, a struggle against a natural force.
To be able to express with very little effort and very little words is what many dreams but it isn’t a careless vacation instead a voyage, one of many hurdles. A journey in which every step you so consciously put forward that you wish you hadn’t been so aware of it.
Thoughts run through your mind like a crowd in a railway station. As the train arrives the entire crowd rushes to board the train, but it isn’t the same with writing. The process of channeling the thoughts into words and then sentences is very tedious and one that at times doesn’t happen at all. So when the time comes to pen down the thoughts, not many words make their way out as if they are held tight by a strong force of which you have little control. Often it leads to a sour face and mental tiredness.
To play with words is fun but words are a hard nut, they refuse to assemble as you wish, they resist to your continuous effort of amalgamation. They play gleefully with your growing irritation. They poke at you and use the very first opportunity to mock. They hurt your ego and make you surrender even before you make an honest attempt at writing. It is a voyage many attempt and few complete.
A stubborn mind refuses to die though humiliated and tiered. If an attempt would cost a dollar, a man may die of hunger. But still every failed attempt pins you to a corner from where you dare not to return. Yet when you bravely return most times you find yourself in a place where you last were. Writing is nothing but a display of beautified thoughts in a simplistic manner, but what it doesn’t mirror is the writer’s struggle behind it, his inferiority to words, his self-inflicted humiliation and helplessness. Like each drop of sweat that burns on a hot summer day, each drop of futile ink curbs the self-assumed instinct of writing.
Like a barren land that awaits a dry river to reduce its thirst, a thoughtless mind seeking to write is an art of reverie. But if reverie is what that keeps one awake then the dream is not a foolish act but a strong desire. Stronger desire usually yields better results but is an art yearned? Is the art channeled through layers of obstruction to curb its natural instinct?
At times when words do finally flow, they fail to cease. Like an unopposed breeze, they pour out of your mind in a musical rhythm. But then all of a sudden, unexpectedly and rather sadly they come to a halt as if they met a wall of great height. To meet that rhythm again, you need to yearn, wait for that magical moment where thoughts and words synchronize effortlessly. The wait can be painful but if you once had the tryst with words you wouldn’t mind waiting again though it be a painful journey.