Midnight Musing

I am not supposed to be writing this or thinking about it. I should be sleeping. Dreaming up new dreamy concoctions. Living my many parallel, fictional lives. Stretching out on this cool, breezy veranda as all the stress and anxiety of an ironically uneventful day ebbs away from my body. But here I am. Body and mind- thinking, stressing, being anxious.

And my heart? That’s somewhere else. In some far foreign land that my mind and body have not had the time to explore and to demean forever. She is meeting new people, turning new stones over and over again in her hand till they become smooth, making her own path where the grass is yet green. She is living the life I never had. She is still crying over the death of a stranger she has only imagined to resemble a scorned lover without much basis. She is still clinging on to the hope that another day will bring news of this attractive stranger finding his love and of their story ending like all others do, Happily. She is still not ready to dig her unkempt hair out of the many letters and verses and rhymes that are caught up in it. Just like her disheveled self is not ready to cross over the parapet of this pool of absurdity to dive into the bone chilling, but quite necessary reality.

My heart, is still pressed between the pages of some book lying neglected somewhere in the clutter my body and mind have managed to ever so skillfully procure. It is drying away its tears and drowning out its importunate laughter. In a last sigh dragged far too long, it is trying to find a medicine for both the heartache and the happiness that these dog eared, coffee stained pages have brought upon it.

And soon, it shall join us again. On our mindless touristic peregrination. Only till I send it off, again. On the real journey whose path stretches across the length and breadth of this book rack. and another. and another. and another.

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Have you read a book today?

Some people will tell you they write for their own self. That they do not care for an audience and its approval, opinion, appreciation or criticism. If there was even an ounce of truth in that, we would not have books and blogs and magazines and dailies. We would have room after room filled with personal journals resting in heaps of dust.
Shakespeare, Shelly, Keats, Frost, Austen, Dickens, The Bronte sisters, Nietzsche, Blyton, Wodehouse, Rumi, Conrad, Bernard Shaw, Miler, Eliot, O’Hara, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Tennessee, Twain, Lawrence, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Virginia Woolf and so many others would be names you haven’t heard of and their genius- things you haven’t read.
You would not be reading this post on my Blog if I decided to write for my else.

The truth remains that Every artist craves for an audience. Seeking acceptance is but human nature. So more than the “price” an art may fetch its artist, it is the admiration or recognition by masses that matters. That,perhaps, is the reason non- promotional wine tastings, art shows and exhibitions came into place. A dancer gets paid to perform but it is for an audience that takes delight in every twist of her ankle or every delicate turn of her waist that she spends days perfecting her every move before a show.

If you have ever known someone who writes, or better still are that someone yourself, you’ll know that there is a hope to be read and judged that does not extinguish…it just keeps burning higher like the flames of a wild, untamed fire.
There are the days when you write only for yourself but more often than not one writes to be read. And that is as true and real as the sun that shines every morning.

For a good twelve years I was aloof to this world of its own. And then someone gifted me a fat book in a maroon leather jacket for my thirteenth birthday. It was my least favorite gift the instant I saw it. Chocolates, Art kits and teddy bears won over that fat jacketed book.
But that changed. Almost an year later, I could not sleep one night and saw this book abandoned at the bottom drawer of my dresser. I thought of giving it a try. The best hours of my life happened. My first book. It was more exciting than a first romance. Men just can not make a woman feel all that a book can.
Unfortunately, I do not remember its name or what it was about, perhaps the fact that I have read over a thousand books since then is to blame. I would waddle in and out of the library on evenings that followed the sleepless night. I would sleep with a book under my pillow every night. There were times when I revisited books I had previously read only to unearth an entirely different dimension. The book with its characters and stories and souls and smells and spots was good as new again. A book at times can have more depth than a live person. And any amount of time spent swimming in its secrets will still leave something untouched for your next union. For a solid chunk of fibers compacted into thin sheet, a book has remarkable vicousity.

Books are treasures worth a million folds more than the tiny black digits prinited at the back of their jacket. They are treasure. Every word and letter and line in them, the riches.
Through some books I have travelled the lengths and breadths of the world and through others beyond the limits of possibility.
To be able to find yourself lost in an imagination and at times to become a part of it is the most beautiful experience there is. It is at this point that an appearance does not matter as much as a personality. It is at this point that you get entangled in a web so intricate yet woven by someone else.
You get involved. You do not buy the final product of an effort. You become a part of it. You may not know the author of the masterpiece you spent days and days and hours savouring and there is not a fat chance in the world that he will ever know you but there is something more evolved than worldly associations of acquaintance that binds you, something beyond physical presence or emotional dependance. He is your ticket to time travel and you, the audience he creates for.

Ever wanted to see a new place, meet new people and have new experiences without spending a dime?
Read a book. Or better still, write one.

Have you read a book today?