I miss writing. I really, truly do miss it. It’s something…to feel the clatter of the keys beneath your fingers, to see that image viewed in your mind’s eye come alive word by word. Or the times when I bother to take paper and pen, to see black ink scrawled across a pristine white background. [I hereby admit that my handwriting takes on a life of its own, compared to the neat, precise letters that I otherwise maintain.]
For now, I’ve decided to go the stream-of-consciousness way. My muse refuses to humour me, you see.
Strange that it does, considering my current environs – I call it my own English manor; this house atop a low cliff overlooking the sea, in midst of torrential rains that abate for only a few blessed hours during the day while the sky continues to remain overcast, making it a permanent twilight. Monsoon is my favourite season, and nothing calms me more than the rumble of the ocean. To see the two combined should have brought out my artistic ability in oodles. But all I see is a blank slate, with no colours around that I could even splash on it for random effect.
[Maybe I never had any artistic ability in the first place. Cue more randomness.]
But when the rains finally ceased long enough for me to venture out, I walked all the way down to the jetty. The clouds were there, all right, and the sea was as restive as ever. The jetty was crowded with silly tourists getting themselves photographed at a dozen spots - none of them differing any more substantially than the previous ones – and corny souvenir shops. I lingered around just long enough to take in the sight of the waves crashing against the pier, and walked back home.
The next day, I venture towards the city, stopping short of the main beach. The place from where the coast began was thinly populated with hutments and fishing boats. The sky was shroud in myriad hues of grey, steadily overwhelming the pale rays of sunshine which broke through from time to time. Except for the sea, it was quiet. I wandered onto the wet sand, with the waves occasionally reaching up to my shins. The stiff winds had thrown my hair asunder, but I bothered enough only to rake through them to ensure that they didn’t get into my eyes.
And I stood still, the water lapping at my feet and the sea breeze rippling through my clothes, my gaze settled on the horizon, almost indistinguishable in the grey haze.
I felt nothing.
[Maybe this soul-searching business is overhyped, after all.]
There was a time, when the mere sight of the sea lifted my spirits to a state of joyous abandon. It symbolized an inexplicable sense of freedom which I so often envisaged in my daydreams. A lot of my writing did have the element of water in the backdrop.
[And strange that I should be writing about not being able to write about the sea – it is still writing after all, isn’t it?]
However, to stand there today amidst what I considered as one of my infallible sources of inspiration…and not be stirred in the least, it was disconcertingly puzzling.
And yet the gale was inescapable as was the sound of the sea, thrashing about in the distance, its waves appearing no more than white jagged lines to my eye as I would idly sit by the balcony railing.
[Looks like that is all my consciousness is filled with at the moment.]
Maybe I am not able to appreciate my surroundings as much as I would like to do, considering that I am present in them to begin with. Maybe this serenity which I seemed to have taken for granted will come to me when I go back to my desolate, landlocked city.
My notions stand changed – some recrafted, some simply annihilated – and I rummage about in the remains, looking to see if in the process my creative ideals have been laid to waste as well. But I hope and I pray that they will resurface in due time.