खुद ही लिख लिया कर मुख़्तसर ऐ कलम। तुझ पे उँगलियाँ फेरना मेरे बस की अब बात नहीं। रूह काँप जाती है तुझमें स्याहियाँ उड़ेलते, रबी। अब रबी कहलाने की मेरी कोई बिसात नहीं। ~रबी [ You please write yourself a little bit, my pen, I don’t have the capability to handle you anymore, My soul shivers to ink your inside, Rabi. I don’t deserve to be called Rabi anymore. ] ...
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? ...