And to write...

Some people can write…write well, admirably…. touching things in a unique way.
You had thought of it, your brain had conveyed you the impression. But, you could never articulate it correctly enough. And then you read those lines and feel..bingo!..precisely what I wanted to say….not written in black and white, but put in a shade of appealing and touching gray…And you turn and tell the writer-“Great job! Bravo!...the writing is indeed beautiful!” But what of the writer? Does he/she talk equally magically for himself? Or, is there a semi-paralysis that the writer suffers from? Can he talk on his own? When does he do that? Probably, when he is talking through his characters…? Or, do his characters say more than he agrees to…? Can he articulate “his” feelings? Does he end up borrowing a line from his character’s agony to express his own love?...may be it was “him” all the time…Or was he pretending in one of those mellifluous passages of expression? What is it that surely belongs to him? Who can say…? May be the writer….Or will his characters doing the talking…?

BLOT!

The dark ink knew…
The sheet was done for.
It had blotted it alright…
BLOT BLOT BLOT
Spreading itself thick and dark…
Touching the very atoms,
Or do they call it the heart?
BLOT BLOT BLOT
The present, the future,
And the unerasable past
Once and for All
BLOT BLOT BLOT
Dumb, defeated sheet,
Hide in my tattered diary fast…
I know you not…no, not with this
BLOT BLOT BLOT.