When should we write?
When the buck stops its rounds.
That is when the writer in you finds your own voice.
A borrowed voice puts you through rounds of verification.
Then again, inspiration is rare, a slow find. It is what establishes your credentials as a writer.
Few people I need to thank have become the few people I am with. My loyalty of emotions would always find them, near or far. Though they are reluctant to let me go away from them but it is a cusp that’d eventually slip away to hold separate loops. That is the difference between giving in and giving up: no take-aways to compensate for the numerable things that you have given away, not even learning or lessons in life. Just that association and the will to begin life exactly from where you are continuing. That continuity is your invisible, life-affirming blessing.
And the gain could be anything:
Nothing lost, nothing gained.
One has to move forward with that last feeling. That is only when the traction of old is likely to become attraction of the new. It is no special feeling, it is a blessing, a range of life that includes resignation as just another form of alignment, not win or loss. You are not making acute plans, you are not laying down expectations, you are not stating hard facts, you are not threading surreal fiction, you are not, you are not in automaton; you are not choosing. There is no pride or prejudice; there is life and continuity.
It is rare to find gems mixed in sand. Gems rub off with each other and sink the sand down. They float on the roughened sand bed, they know the water has shaped them, they know once shores are reached they’d lie aligned, that the water would no more be the force that shapes them but a gentle touch-and-go figure with power of alteration of texture or maybe even placement. These separation processes of non-aligned matter creates two worlds, not too different nor removed from each other. But the separation is so clearly materialised that nature cannot exercise its authority over them anymore to mould them, not anymore than it could earlier when they were so materialistically non-conforming, yet, co-existing with each other. Their sifting or shifting is sans wonder or worry. It is not the case for the curious or cautious. There is no baggage of complaints or barrage of accusations. It is how they came together like they had to, it is how they leave each other because they have to. It is rare. A possibility for it becoming common. A good possibility then, if it does become common. Living above law when bound by no laws.
The evening gives away to night. Few people hope. Many pass by. The sunset is a giveaway sometimes. Nobody stood around to notice its colours but. Whether of life, or of death. Nature doesn’t play to a theatre, Nature doesn’t play, at all.