friend

Respite

Experiencing writer’s block after writing an 800-word long essay is a common complaint. Most of my friends suffer really chronically, I must say. Few take it as a disease, a dreadful, terminal ailment, and will go by any length to not look so defeated by their ballpoints, so undermined by the ghost of their limbo present. That momentary jerk washes all the enthusiasm of the writer down, almost kills the spirit from writing anymore. Once, I found a friend frantically hammering her pen onto the display board hung above the table on the adjoining wall, write verse of a century old heart break, poke orange-peels with pen caps and make airplanes out of the heavily scribbled pages. All that definitely did not make her happy. I had to stash in my pocket a few specimen that her disenchanted soul had created. From writing an article called “why I like Austen.” for a website, I was surprised to see a woman who used flip out whenever asked to take credit from the widest poetic license and try her hand on poetry, write a subliminal piece of verse subconsciously (she had to subconscious while throwing pens at perfect parabola all about the room).

Writer’s block can make one mad.

But that must not deter one from writing. It’s not as hard as the physics of petroleum science, but yes, more painstaking than knitting a sweater for a bubbly ten-year old girl. Like facing “Bright Pink!”, “NO. May be coral?”, “can we add green and yellow here?” to “eh, you forgot to add a hoodie! :/” and all that cupcake cream, a piece of writing needs patience. Just as the right pins and the yarn make the knitting as effortless as floating on water, the right idea does the wonder. If writing is all about putting down in words about the neurons’ prom night inside your head, it’s more about letting those neurons free for a moment and rely whichever way they go.

Now, without her permission, which i will never get, probably i cannot show here my friend’s emotional

drifts through her moment of writer’s block. It’s just a reminder that we’re all little driblets of poetry, found

far from the  fountain of words.

Eat, Write & Sleep

What do you do after you submit your paper??

Think no?

Fistbumps, high-fives, ice-creams, group merriment, beamy eyes, balloons, pamper food…? yes. no, but more.

The semester-long episode of TP and endless saga over how wretched the topic was gets over as you sign on that dotted lines that politely wrings out from you the Holy Confession- that you have indeed legally picked stuffs from the mentioned sources. ‘Alright, I did!’. Your sipicjumbo.com_P1000571gnature vouches that for you. You take a deep breath, and watch colours fly across the rooms. You have never felt this free before! Even guiltily for a day, because exam comes knocking any minute now.

**

You walk down the passage, your tired arms hung around the shoulder of your friend, chuckling, and giggling over the hard-harder-hardest times you have with your TP. You retrospect about the nights you have spent wrestling with your computer, how you have marred the entire document with editing and re-editing that was impeding your train of thoughts and what probably had blocked the sole track leading to your argument. You borrowed eight books from the library that you remember to return immediately, got some five essays printed out, and have let twenty more rest on your desktop. You have never bunked the classes this decisively to study for this paper, because you know that you’ll sleep the rest of the day at home, because you’d think life is trouble-packed. You re-modify your clock now, since the TP season is over. The noon probably ends with a pamper lunch and mouthful of laughter with friends. And the day ends approximately at 6 evening, because you’re as dead as a laughing zombie and want to hit the bed ASAP.

ASAP appears a greyish chimera in your dreams. That’s probably the Bard in his new attire with a new MS held in his hand. You see your exam schedule for the first time, on your own risk. Your best friend doesn’t forget to send it on your phone.

You uwillingly step out, because the new day calls you to work on what you love. ❤

I have heard a lot of people discussing the unpredictability of life, which I agree is true by all length and breadth, but is it ultimately a viable topic of research? I wonder. I wonder how callous our approaches become- just because life is unpredictable. The man who sends roses in the day, makes smoke rings fly up in the air at night- because, his love runs away with his friend and life is so unpredictable. The question is: why to malign the support of your lungs because of heart ache that is, let’s come straight, exaggerated by both the parties..? I might sound mean, which I do, but does it not amount to trivialising and overlooking the profundity that our lives come packed with?

I tried to remember her face from the memories fading through a screen, after I learnt that her body had given up in the hospital. I tried, very hard, very exhaustively to pull back the riverine memories which is flowing to a mysterious nowhere, forever. I blankly stared at the wall, trying to recall the last year Annual Day Function in the college, where she had draped a beautiful blue silk and was to ensure that the lamps near the stage are always alight. I could remember everything but her face. I felt as miserable as an amnesiac, until a goodhearted junior sent me a prompt, a meticulously edited photo of hers that simplified her existence, at least now, after that she is gone. I went to the college today to collect few document. A tenuously hung down air began to surround me as soon as I entered the gate. I got to know about her active participation in the college theatre group and her brilliant brainwork in mechanising the team. It hurt me more because I love theatre so much, and we shared common interest, and she was just a dreamer like I was.

                                                                                             *

I glanced at her monochromatic photograph that rests in my phone- she looks behind her right ear, arms resting on the wedge that supports her body firmly upon the wall. There, there she smiles. That smile is now closely braided with numerous laughs, giggles, shines that her family and classmates had had with her. Her smile is an adornment of V’s Farewell Party posts; her smile is the last thing left for her roommates.