“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”
Even at fifteen I could tell you a robust story
with nuances of experiences in my repertoire,
but they would all have a linear trajectory –
for did I have the vision to think multilaterally,
like the characters I read about so vividly
in classics I chose from my school’s library!
My characters would have physical attributes
I could creatively define with an artist’s mind,
their lives I’d enliven with my vivid imagination
with a cogent word-palette from avid reading:
Yet, a sheltered life impedes psycho analysis.
Only high intellect doesn’t make authors
I idolized – Maugham, Tolstoy, or Lawrence
could string words like symphony conductors,
are still relevant to a study of human psyche –
whether of their times or centuries after them, thus their works live while bestsellers fade.
So I hadn’t interest to write a story or rhyme,
as I couldn’t match the literary masters I read,
feeling intellectually dwarfed in comparison –
drafting official letters always in English tests,
while seeking a deep sea of real experiences,
to enrich my reading and emotional quotient.
In the first rounds of the marathon of life,
running a steady pace I didn’t put in my might
to top school or college and bask in limelight, even if for sports, the arts and extra curricular activities I won many a coveted prize.
Slowly gaining momentum on my long flight,
putting in my best at every job I held in life
even if I’d quit if I wasn’t growing in height –
always taking in every experience, that I might
one day add to my repertoire, to sit to write –
correlating with my reading I never gave up, building my mental muscle and moral might,
to nurture the short term goals diligently,
with my sight on the faraway goal post.
The poems, stories, novels, that I now write –
I may have lived with for a long long time
in allowing the thoughts to marinate
with observations on characters psyches,
while peppering with spices and condiments
from personal and professional experiences,
to create verbal recipes for discerning minds;
to sustain a menu for an Erudite Book Cafe.
PS: these spontaneous thoughts now, came trailing those in the previous post…
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