Days of absolute desolation and melancholy
open their lips at times;
They wish the writer, the artist in me a peaceful retired life.
I understand well the silent advice to fade-out voluntarily.
In reality, I have never mortgaged my sense organs to any being,
Not even to the greatest educator, ‘Time’;
Thus I never desisted myself from recording
my time, my experiences,
in the fashion I wanted to depict them.
My interpretations have coined a few new words,
and have altered some older ones as well;
My thought process has fought very hard against
all the undue constrictions on its way;
My elaboration has led to improvisations,
perhaps unasked for ,
and the impurities have crept in.
Gradually , I’ve seen the several genres of mistakes,
flourishing at will;
they are many , they are diverse,
and thus , they’ve formed a form of ‘Art’.
Solitary correctness now appears to be cliched.
The future of all my creations may end up in getting locked,
into the darkness of metal trunks, wooden almirahs ;
the ‘honorary members’ of the age-old sensor board.
But the pollen-bearing wind keeps on turning
the pages over,
The dark ink evokes flash-flood of adrenaline,
and the ‘cognitive storm’ inside the brain never subsides –
It maintains my health.