Dear Words, Sorry for not writing you. I got busy with diction and talking in your form. Don't think that I don't miss you. It's just that you dissolve in the monotony of this plastic life. I have a lot of things to explain to the world. A lot of your symbols to describe. The ink in my pen has dried. Words, please don't go away from me. You are a potter who mould my thoughts; my dwellings.
I apologise for neglecting you. I drifted away from myself. I have come back to you. I need your help. I am in search of you; of your beauty and grace. How you shape my world and my personae. You define me. You complete me.
Its always better to be listeners rather than stating opinions. People are not humiliated, they have nothing to criticise about and no qualms. They are at peace and we are at peace. Humans always want to be heard and want support rather than being jumped upon by others.
Its always difficult for me to describe myself.I have mutating moods. Sometimes serious, some times funny; sometimes thoughtful, sometimes careless; mostly calm, at times irritated; some days happy, some days low.
Sometimes a writer, other times a reader.
" Books and reality and art are the same kind of thing to me."
- Vincent Van Gogh
"In the name of God, the compassionate, the Merciful
Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto and with him lie buried all the secrets and mysteries of the art of short-story writing...Under tons of earth lies, still wondering who among the two is greater short-story writer:God or He."
- His own epitaph, Saadat Hasan Manto
" A beautiful thing deteriorates; an ugly thing stays more or less the same."
- Zohra Sehgal
The search for fresh carrots, small bureaucratic victories, wandering if it's going to rain, and allowing, even if briefly, the thought of new underwear to lift your soul.
It's enough to fill the kind of book that life is too short to read.
My heart beat fast or did not beat at all;
I could not say all that I thought and thought
Till words deserted me. I loved too abstractly.
I dreaded how all there was to give was me-
Like water, this biography. I unravelled far too easily.
Then fled to selfish deserts and slept on the hard rocks.
I couldn't make what others made and broke and broke
and made, that sweet choreography. I went alone
And missed the world continually. I misread smiles
I stuttered before open arms, but times passed too fast
for dissappointments imprint on the glass of memory
I sought the future even when the blood swirled now.
I let the past decide too greedily. I kept searching out.
The window, I tried to say half-hidden by the light.
Frida Kahlo Self Portrait
"I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best."