diary, FICTION, poetry

THE WRiTER

And the wind doesn’t stop, doesn’t stay, and doesn’t wait. It has to travel like the thirsty traveler that it is; it has to go on and on, and meet people and places. Challenge the mountains and change courses of rivers. The wind has seen it all, and knows what is next. The wind is a fortune teller and a historian. The wind can uproot the deepest roots and firmly plant a fragile sapling in to the soil. No man can and what man cannot, no one can, incarcerate the wind. Like the orange of the sun, wind is the color of life.

And you are the wind. You are the thought. The writer.

And there is no need to believe in the truth for it is there, real; what we must believe in is a lie, because once we believe in it to be real, it starts to exist. And in the mean time the lie becomes real, it becomes a part of everything in this whole universe, it squeezes itself between and amongst things and events of which it was never really a part of. It starts to be the truth, a masked truth. And then the next step is to put no effort to believe it, because it is real, now. This is how you create something that never existed before, but now it’s a part of the past and has now the power to affect everything. Like the peel of the banana, lie is the shadow of truth.

And you are the lie. You are the creator. The writer.

And last night the dream of the unknown ruled the better part of my sleep. I was lost and confused, incongruous and defeated. The unknown is someone or something that had never before occurred to me, that had never before introduced it to me. But it does exist. And my oblivion made me a believer. There was a fire, that burned everything to ashes and I realized that the fire is my progenitor; the instigator of life. Dreams are thoughts locked in the chamber and it seeps through that little gap below the door, it seeps when no one is watching. Dreams never die, they go back to that chamber through the lines of the opening at the bottom of the door. Like the clouds of the rain, dream is the fire of life.

And you are the dream. You are the destroyer. The writer.

Well, now the writer is not a person or he may be, what concerns us is what he is and let me tell you, he is a bandit. A Bandit who rules and steals what we keep and think dear. A dictator, who changes the order of our lives, makes us believe in things that cannot be seen, only fantasized. He hides behind the mask of a philosopher, a thinker, a conjurer, a reader and a poet. He shows us the paradise and the moment we start to cherish the beauty around he pricks us with a needle and escorts us to the conveyor belt of pain. The pen is mightier than the sword; do I now need to explain this to you? A writer is a juggler of emotions, of tears and laughter. He is a weaver of a tapestry; a tapestry of happiness and sadness. A writer is the one who is everything you want to be and everything you despise. He is a smuggler of thoughts and reason, a born convict on the run. The writer is the architect of your life. A writer is the destroyer and the builder of a façade.

And you are the outlaw. You are the maker. The writer.

-THE ABOVE EXTRACT HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM KASHIV’S JOURNAL.


Image courtesy – Pinterest

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