Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Writer's Block

I love to write.

And being a self-proclaimed narcissist, it'd be no surprise if I'd say I love my handwriting. As a kid, I used to keep writing just to figure out ways to improve my handwriting - how to curve that 'd' better or explore a new way to write a 'g'. That's all I'd obsess about. That's what got me into writing - I guess. 

When I'd penned my first few articles (short stories or poems often hidden in my journals), readers - counting a total of 4 including parents and siblings, loved them. Or at least, they pretended to. That was motivation enough for me to enrol in competitions at school and college. And sometimes, prizes did come my way. 

The confidence led me into publishing in the college magazines and newsletters - which were probably never read. People just flipped through the pages to get to their respective posts, and brag about it. At least I did. But, these platforms help. To push aspiring 'writers' like me into believing that one day we could also publish a book! 

I'd always wanted to write a book. But the story-line kept evading me. Or changing, rather. I never knew if the protagonist should be a human or an animal or a thing. If human, then gender issues cropped up - I was not a boy. So, how could I write about a boy? But, isn't that what writers do? Draw up an imaginary world around a fictitious person? Maybe, I was yet to grow as a writer. Maybe I was not imaginative enough. 

But as crazy as it sounds, I always knew what the name of my book would be, though sane people do it the other way around. However, I'm not going to disclose it now (might get into copy-right issues, you see). 

Anyways, the idea of a blog was seeded much later - when I was confident enough that I too had an audience, who might not just read, but also enjoy what I wrote. A heart-break helped speed up the process. And this blog happened. Though, half of it is filled with mushy poems I am not too proud about :D 

Those days a song or a memory was reason enough for me to rush to my computer and type away, teary-eyed. But these days, I don't find it easy anymore. I'd love to think of this phase as a writer's block. Do authors who have never really penned anything substantial, get a writer's block? (I'd like to assume they do). 

Writing was my solace. It was a vent - like the 'kick' some people get from kick-boxing when they hit someone and make them bleed! My posts gave me that. It was my way of telling others to stop what they were doing and to take notice of me, my way of reacting to worldly problems I didn't have a solution for, my way of hiding, my way of revealing, my way of romance, my way of revenge, and much more. 

I hope to get back to writing soon. Probably, post something every alternate day for starters. And probably I will write that book too. Because I love writing. As I said, it helps me improve - not my handwriting these days. But me. And rarely touch someone else's life as well. And I pray, improve it too. 

Thursday, July 7, 2016

I'm Alive

Rape me. Cut me. Kill my pride.
While at it, make me cry.
Make me bleed. Make me scream.
I’m no child. I’m thirteen.

Toss me around for flunkies to try.
Let their fantasies come to life!
Slay me lifeless, slice by slice.
Then, fling my body and lit it on fire.

I stepped out at midnight
A whore I had to be ~
A proven fallacy.
(I woke up to pee)

And forfeited my right 
To lead a normal life.
And you gained access to pry
In between my thighs.

No one to wail at my funeral pyre
No marches held. No candle lights.
No vigilantes seeking - justice deprived
Skip uproars for this one, for how many do they fight?

My roofless hut stays gloomy, under the brightest sunlight
The door – a ragged sack, has come untied
Somewhere lost in a corner, my father sits, fragile
And into the sinking walls, my mother whines.