Someone once asked me, you ask a lot of questions, why is that? What are you seeking so desperately? At that moment the question had hit my conscious with such a force that all sense of speech had left my body and I was bereft of any words.
What WAS I seeking?
I had no answer for this question, just like I never had any answers. Answers always meant the end of destiny, the end of the road, and I wasn’t ready for that. This undying thirst for knowledge had gripped me tightly in its arms and the answers seemed like a million dreams away.
I started asking questions to avoid mediocrity, to build a place for my own self from the ashes. The questions define me, not the answers. The questions are the muse. There is warmth in curiosity, the unfounded feeling of having a forever.
So, what was I seeking?
I was seeking my ownself in this gigantic carnival of a world.
I meant to write something long, something from the heart, something to take the edge off, just something, to heal the bruised art. The words had arrived, tumbling in their path, dragging along with them the dripping ink and its pristine canvas. I meant to rip open every portal there was, to let the pain out, to let it all escape me; to be finally bereft of those silent tears and it felt so soothing, at least in my thoughts. I had it all, my muse was back, but the words betrayed me yet again, this time laughing sinisterly at my gaped soul. The sands of time had etiolated the initial enthusiasm of their arrival and my pen remained unmoved, burdened by the weight of the ink of my thoughts. The canvas lies in tatters now, simply because it could not escape the wrath of my frustrated mind. Another day passes and the pain is still inside begging for the words to stop their sabbatical. I cannot end this cycle and the war inside wages on. The words are fleeting but the agony is perpetual.