There are times like these that the influx of all that needs to be put down on paper itself hinders the flow of words. There is then no train of thoughts, but an explosion of selfsame conclusions - some formed, some unformed, some stillborn, some deformed - elastic in style - the mumbo jumbo of a clogged mind.
And yet the love for writing brings me here. I yearn to write till my nib bleeds, my fingers ache, my mind is cured - till I can hear no more of the senseless din - till my chaos begins to make sense, take shape and bring to me a sense of accomplishment that only few care for. Of all those I have loved, its writing that's never failed me. May be because I never stopped loving it. I am aware though that even as I fill this canvas with words, I am hardly saying anything. May be thats the idea. May be I am not ready yet.
I love you my blog, my haven, my refuge, my holiday, my work, my shelter, my sanctuary, my burrow, my faithful home!
