Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.
Writing is like making love.
The tease when abstract words are jumbled together, hinting at something but at the same time not making complete sense. Confusing, intriguing, attracting. Stop. Wait. Continue with the foreplay, the act and the climax.
Writing is like letting it out.
You make music. The symphony, the rising and the falling notes. The Madhya ‘ma’, the komal ‘ni’ and the tivra ‘sa’. You have 26 notes to convert your feelings into music. Paint a picture with words. Pick up a red tone to denote passion, a blue to show nostalgia, yellow to show the funnier, lighter feelings. A green to remember that special someone that never could be, a black to denote darkness that you are not afraid of, that your acknowledge as a necessary appendage.
Writing is chronicling.
Writing is making your journal entries. Writing is filling those last pages of your school CW copies, your college notebooks, your office log books, the coffee house tissues, newspapers. Writing is noting conversations you have had, helping you live them all over again; life realisations that could be forgotten in the rush. Writing is living with a witness. Writing is being your witness.
writing is like living it all over again.
I may not make sense. I wear a yellow t-shirt to kill my blues.
I am like that. Incorrigible, moody and 24X7 PMSing.
(Not for YOU there hiding in your blankets; you, love me)
p.s. writing is like PDA in a very subtle way. ;)