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.
