Words don’t seek me anymore. Juggling with my intent, I am craving to make some sense. Ideas have receded behind each other, continuing their aloofness from me.
I wish to fill this white sheet with something revolting; something novel. But failure is pounding upon me again and again. I am not helpless- rather there is lessness in my conviction; my intent to seek a new idea; those countless moments where I could have pondered, left fulfilling by either a company or a pleasure.
But once that idea comes, how would it ensure another one trailing; because this stream has to continue, despite settings and mood.
Facing this page is adventure in itself: slowly I am filling this immaculate white with curves and concoctions, hoping, as always, to unveil another aspect of mine. There is a dread. A scare: sense of going wrong, going wry of what had been wished. But I have to practice it. I have to practice facing this sheet again and again. I have to practice to paint it with my words- again and again. It would fail me, thousand times, but there would be, ought to be, that one single moment where I will release some humor, some inspiration and some sense.
