a writer's diary

"yeh keyboard thak thak bahut karta hai" (the keyboard makes a lot of noise.) , and there is a charm about my quiet pencil and my silent papers, mute inks that are a silent sea of voices, liberated in an ecstasy of passionate compulsion: the power under which you surrender to write. things happen and you sometimes wish to put them to words, immediately. sometimes, they sleep in a log slumber like a lullaby. and at others, they rise and fall like the sea's tides. others, wake up inside you with their fiery eyes like volcanoes, might be dormant sometimes but then, the lava erupts. some you paint to perfection like little bird's nets and silken threads. but things are different with the music of the keyboard. they are different with similar letters, in perfect communion of perfected size... makes the heart crave for the imperfection that is beauty. yes, i can return to my pen and paper and i do that many a times. but here sharing is easy and instantaneous. light and jolly too. though, you sometimes get extremely saddening reviews but at others, you are on the top of the world. perhaps, i would not write as much as i write if there was not this certain compulsion to share from readers and from my own heart. perhaps, i would not practice enough to lead it to betterment. but one never knows until one is near the sea if the waves are ebbing or falling but does not matter, there are waves essentially  blue waves that transform into "neeli dari" (blue mat/sheet) and you have the comfort of sitting on them like the tired traveler  like one waiting for food, like a maharaja (emperor.)there are patterns of writing on paper, things which technology misses. though, the writer's state of mind be not important to a text at all but the personal revisiting of those memories is sometimes lost too. seeing my older written poems or texts, for example, where i find changes in pen, in handwriting, broken lines, spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, blood stains... many of them tell me with what impetus was i writing those pieces and then i can laugh and cry at it. now, those smiles are lost and so are those tears. none of it will probably make any difference to the reader but it does to the writer and the point is what  we miss while reading something is beyond explanation  perhaps, it is beautiful seeing handwritten letters kept in the museum for the same purposes. our great writers will never have that privilege and though i might sound so orthodox, but it's saddening to miss something as beautiful as that. perhaps the tears, the blood, ink stains and sweat should show and might help us understand somethings better about a work too, if not always but occasionally. @