There are times
when I realise, that
after all, I am not made
to be a writer. There are so
many things I want to say at times
and the more things I have to say, the
more they twist and tumble and stick to my
throat. I think them through and above and under
till the words tear and can’t be used anyway and I’m left
with just a few pictures in my head of all I ever wanted to say.
I cannot show you those pictures. And flashing them around I realise
even more the need to articulate to spew forth the thoughts that are denying
me peace in my own territory and then I think that there is no such thing as territory
because what I own, she owns too, he owns as well you do so where do they all go and
where do they meet again and I get so tired trying to run after fleeting disobedience that won’t
be caught that must dart around till I despair of ever filling in a center of sensible jam in my spindle
full of nonsense and…I wish I could, but I can’t.
Do you understand the frustration though? The intent behind it all? Sometimes when my words play
hide and seek with me I feel more vulnerable than I would naked on a street at midday. There
seems to a wall a protection I cannot break down that my very words put up so that I may not
find them and I am left fumbling, searching hunting through flash cards made my own mem-
ory in some moment of pity on its keeper, its keeper who often has to physically clutch her
head to keep the words in keep them safe because they are there, forever scratching at
the back of her eyes, running out her ears and memory, what can it do but look in
horrified sympathy?
– Upasruti

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