I don’t know what the heck happened to my writing. Every time I put my fingers to the keypads, the words don’t flow out. Not anymore. The consonants and vowels don’t mingle and resonate as they used to. Every passage feels like a worthless piece written halfheartedly, to be force fed to someone later. Am I angry? On whom? Am I frustrated? With what? Am I anxious? But why? Why am I writing? For whom? What’s the point? ...
You ask me, do it. I say, no. You grunt, Do It Now! I scream, Noooo. And then without warning, you take an iron bat, And hit me, over and over, at my guts, No please… No… I am sorry, but it’s necessary, And then you hit harder, Right between the forehead, Arggghhhhh… I fall down. Head first, Inspiration trickling down. From head, through neck, to chest. You take a brush, soak it in my crimson, And put the first stroke on a blank canvas, Then you look at me and groan, There. I started. Now go complete what’s on your mind. I mumble, but… but I can’t. I am not capable enough, I am not talented enough, What if they hate it, What if they laugh at me? ...
पागल कहती है दुनिया मुझे, मैं उन्हें पागल कहता हूँ, सच का पता है मुझे और तुझे, तो फिर उन्हें क्यों कहता फिरूँ? दुनिया हंसती है मुझ पे, जो करता हूँ तारीफें तेरी, कहती है क्यों लिखता हूँ उस पे, जो किसी को दिखती ही नहीं, तू नहीं इस दुनिया की, ये दुनिया समझती नहीं, तो फिर क्यों उन्हें समझाने बैठूं ? काफ़िर कहती है दुनिया मुझे, मैं उन्हें काफ़िर कहते हूँ, रब का पता है मुझे और तुझे, तो फिर उन्हें क्यों कहता फिरूँ ? ...