Writing is like diving deep into an unknown ocean. With only a few words and phrases to build a raft, the pen becomes the oar. It is scary and there is no sign of the end. The beginning is that of procrastination, or of impulsive decision to start the journey.
There is also a feeling of nervousness and about learning the surges of new emotions; unheard of and with new kind of expressions. Sometimes powerful, at times extremely docile, they jolt the raft and also caress it politely. It’s a new experience for the pen to navigate through this fickleness- the world too is wary of the indecisiveness and sudden convulsions of an afflicted world.
With only the flimsy robes woven with few words and phrases, the sudden gust of this expansive world, its reality, nature beyond human grievances feel alien. It sure alienates the journeyer from the littleness to a more comprehensive relationship they have with this existence. The contours carved through a solid world feel insufficient for consciousness. Sooner this realization becomes an obsession and the desire to seek extensively across the unknown surprises, new realities, and thoughts perceived to be beyond human control or consciousness.
To be honest, the robe is not enough to protect the journeyer from new realizations and challenges. Gathering stories from this vast world requires passion and patience, both. Also, the journey is not challenging and worthy if stories from such unheard-of realities and experiences are not narrated. It is essential not to anchor the raft after a brief journey and turn away from the tumultuous world triggered by new waves of consciousness.
It is so often experienced during repeated drudgery of trying to erode one’s world with offensive stories born from unprecedented hatred. They wear away the being, the world around, and weakens the anatomy. Through all the rage, the fragile world of ego and the inability to forgive is also exposed. It becomes a struggle between the weary consciousness, beleaguered by repressed anger, which threatens to destroy the essence of life.
The world is there to be misinterpreted! No one can comprehend the meaning of human stories and journeys without compelling the consciousness beyond its superficial capabilities. Truth exists, but it does not dawn upon this world easily! The tenseness of the Universe, the reticence, and its doubtful behaviour tests the journeyer.
Compared to the sea of consciousness, human efforts are deficient. There is a habit of erroneous experimentations, hasty conclusions, and lethargic formulation of ideas. This is where writing is afflicted with fatal confidence to repeat the type of stories from a feeble reality. Surrounded by excessive sycophancy, the self-image is painted in a whimsical colour.
It becomes a habit to abstract from the depreciating world! A world is created from the exaggerated consciousness nourished by delusions and indifference. Is this how the journey should be? It is convenient to travel but difficult to journey across the expansive world. No one knows where to accumulate the stories, but the world becomes a thoughtful cradle to preserve them; only if someone is brave and curious enough to seek.