Can Versova be like Paris?

I am a great romantic at heart. I am infatuated by how artists became artists - sitting alone in a room for hours and just hammering the keys; staring at a painting for hours to simply begin; day-dreaming for hours; doing nothing through the day.

But there is so much into me of what and how other artists did it that I am letting my own journey slip away. You know what is a tornado? My mind is a tornado.

I type this blog sitting alone in my 2bhk apartment feeling like a writer sitting famously in his/her Paris flat besides a window and getting lost in what he/she is creating. This is what attracts me, but my habits have become such that the time has come to re-tune my whole being. Now that's a task, I know, but nothing is also a thing with a "no", if that's possible, then anything can be (made) possible.

oh, the satisfaction in the simple act of writing a blog is like somebody quenching my thirst after hours. I can talk about hours because that's what I have felt. Even hunger. I have felt hunger in order to save money and it has had to effects on me, or rather three : shivering in my fingers, constant churning of weird acids in my stomach and a constant pull-away from the reality. When someone says that you don't know hunger, I would get a bit offended and would like to answer the person that I know hunger, I have been hungry because of the fear the money would run out of my bank. The feeling though makes me weak because I have never got used to it. yesterday evening I was hungry. i was smoking a cigarette with Arjun on Versova beach and i felt this magnetic urge to eat a chocolate because chocolate is cheap and gives energy, though I have never felt any significant difference after eating a chocolate. i don't know where does that energy gets consumed. and i think i am great energy consumer - i consume my own energy that my body starts craving for more which i cannot provide at time.

do i sound like an artist here? maybe. but each word is true and here i am not being a romantic.

i just realized what great feeling i am having right now; my energies have drastically altered into something positive, writing does that to me, though it did not do so yesterday but today as i open my heart and type this out, i feel liberated, i feel relaxed, my insecurity of time running against me and the world running away from has gone away, temporarily. so does that mean that i gotta write 24x7?

routine, man, routine. routine is the key. the word is flashing across my face, my life like an alarm that i am not bale to stop and which i should at the earliest. some people hate routine, even i do, but isn't that because those people have to work against their liking in a routine that has trapped them.

imagine: i being trapped in a routine of writing, even writing shit. what bliss would that be?

but i am content with one thing: i like to write more than i like to act. it took time to accept this but the moment i did i experienced something weird, something different, and i think people call that contentment. it's true, man: you accept your instincts and you live freely.

bye.
who am i saying this to? didn't i read a lot about artists being alone to create?

Exhale

What a silence! And how focused my mind is right now. I should not write about it a lot but just use it here.

But to use this space for? Is it holy? Yes it is. Is it private? oh, yes it is. Should you make others read it? Not now. now is not the time to make the world read it. But one day surely i would want the world to read it. (also i will not make the "i's" in caps anymore - though i have to remember this for the future - because it is tedious and holds the flow massively.)

jack kerouac. read about him, his beat generation movement and what he felt about it. i wonder how i missed his books in the american library. maybe now is the time to explore him. he seems like an interesting writer, someone who fucked the norms and created a massive young people's following with a seamless prose writing. i had heard in school that poets usually can make up words to help their poems but never heard that prose writers would that. just acknowledged the typing sound and it made me calm down.

calm down. i haven't been calm - since ages - since the last two days. lots cris-crossing the mind at the same time making me anxious and in agony. i threw a pillow at a wall in my room because i wanted to throw something that would not catch my parent's' attention in spite of the fact that they were sleeping.

i think i prefer prose. the typing sound and the free-flow of the words just suits me and heals my soul and calms me down and makes me relieved and happy... no, not happy, i don't know what makes me happy, when was the last time i was really happy. i laughed but was that happiness, no that was not happiness. i rather prefer was not than wasn't, it is a time waste to put that apostrophe there by using the shift key. i can have a Kerouacesque attitude here.

it is strange how i get affected by people so easily. i am attracted to their certain aspect and that is it, i get hooked to their style of working and feel like i wish i could incorporate that in my writing some day or in my work.

ii fucking wish i never stop writing and stories just flow from me like a river that keeps crossing over the rocks, cutting them in exquisite designs only to be picked up later by someone who will take it to his home and make it a paperweight - i did that once. well isn't that a story! the story of the stone, or say, the pebble. wow. ok, it is a simple story that does not have any metaphor attached to it right now but it could be about a non-living object. does it really need to have a metaphorical value to make it understandable or relatable to people? can people not feel the pain of a pebble that ends up being a paperweight whereas it were enjoying the gentle massage from the river. in a human space, it lies dead doing nothing, feeling nothing. that is an idea, let's see.

i do get these abstract ideas which make no sense. this is the second time in recent days that i have got an idea about a story that does not talk about humans. one his about two hens which i want to write keeping in mind that those two hens are metaphors for the refugees. the state of the hens is analogous to the refugees. it is coming very strongly to me. i have some visuals and some lines in my mind. let's see how does it happen. how does it turn out to be.

i think i should start typing it without thinking over it too much until i have a first draft.

i just took a long breathe. felt very very good.

i am so alive right now talking to myself and venting this out in the universe of google.

what a silence this night has. the whirring of the fan rotating right overhead me sounds so beautiful and peaceful. if i switch of the fan there will be complete silence except some faint noises of trucks and late night cars. but that keeps the life. it breaks the rhythm and adds to the overall rhythm of the night. even the sound of the acs! i stood outside my balcony some time ago and saw that nothing moved and inch. there was no breeze and everything was still as if dead. but the sound of those acs, which one can find in every house, made the space feel alive. that it was not a deadly place but people live here, and this sound of the acs is a symbol for that. that is why winters are deadly at night. no sound and fog in front of you. you just hear yourself.

ok. there are hayway thoughts but now the energy has gone to delve into them. the flow for tonight has finished and this is not the place to force my writing.... or well...it could be the practising arena! why not! but this is a free space for me where i can be myself and do what i want and how so ever long i want.

anyway, as i exhale again, i say gn.