Every time I turn to my notepad and ink-pen, a was starts within me. A war between what to write and what’s coming out. A constant struggle between the compulsive desire to fill the pages with hopelessness, dreariness and frustration inside, and a desire to create something hopeful, with colors of life in an attempt to transmit the same colors, same hope inside me.
As I look at the pages, I keep scribbling something, crossing it again and again, doodling, writing forgotten names and commonplace words to fill the gaping blank of the page which demands to be written on.
I write a line, a sentence which keeps coming on in my mind. I still don’t know whether to write prose or poetry. Been writing a lot of poetry lately, but I know the shackles of poetry are too rigid, and I more often than not end up deceiving myself, by ending up with something entirely different from what I had started with. I know I’m bad with poetry.
Still struggling to make sense out of the sentence I had just written, checking the intermittent desire to cross the damned thing and start over again, I compromise with a few sentences. After the compromise, it’s a little easier to go further. Either the compromise ends up destroying the very idea I began with, and I produce a bastard, despised by me, or the compromise spares me and allows me to rebel in a few lines, and I’m spared the shame for my own creation.