"Write about things that make you cry." - Badhwar
Writing is my heart center. It connects me to me, like exercise and yoga.
Some days the words come out all wrong. A mass of jumbled mess like the muddled thinking that's producing them. "Think clearly to communicate clearly", says one of my favourite professors. Those are the kind of words, and phrases, and thoughts you'd like to erase, unwrite, unthink.
Other days, the words come as easily as pearls on a string slide smoothly. These are the sentences, ideas, records of memory that time-stamp a portion of your life, that you like revisiting - to reacquaint yourself with the person you were then.
Kerouac, you're still guiding me - "if you don't say what you want, what is the sense of writing?"
Yes, let's say, but with an "ask". Because isn't it good to ask? To question?
Why do we question, though? To get an answer? Or to have our notion of an answer validated by framing the question so?
Are answers important? Can a discourse be entirely composed of questions? Can a question be answered with a question?
Where do you want the questions to lead you? Do you want them to lead you somewhere?
But here's more meandering in the field of my thoughts. Because that's what I like doing best.
A foggy memory surfaces to mind. As a child, rolling about on my bed one evening, I turned and lay on my back to stare at the ceiling to dream up questions and fire the volley of them at my Dad. That felt like the right and important thing to do - to ask and ask and ask him questions. My Dad sat beside me and patiently answered every question I had for him. From all the questions I asked, the only one I remember now is, "why is the colour of the sky blue?" After I had exhausted myself or had found a distraction (TV, I guess), I did what kids do best - got up and ran away. And Dad did what Dads do best - went back to working on the task he had stopped midway for me.
Writing is my heart center. It connects me to me, like exercise and yoga.
Some days the words come out all wrong. A mass of jumbled mess like the muddled thinking that's producing them. "Think clearly to communicate clearly", says one of my favourite professors. Those are the kind of words, and phrases, and thoughts you'd like to erase, unwrite, unthink.
Other days, the words come as easily as pearls on a string slide smoothly. These are the sentences, ideas, records of memory that time-stamp a portion of your life, that you like revisiting - to reacquaint yourself with the person you were then.
Kerouac, you're still guiding me - "if you don't say what you want, what is the sense of writing?"
Yes, let's say, but with an "ask". Because isn't it good to ask? To question?
Why do we question, though? To get an answer? Or to have our notion of an answer validated by framing the question so?
Are answers important? Can a discourse be entirely composed of questions? Can a question be answered with a question?
Where do you want the questions to lead you? Do you want them to lead you somewhere?
But here's more meandering in the field of my thoughts. Because that's what I like doing best.
A foggy memory surfaces to mind. As a child, rolling about on my bed one evening, I turned and lay on my back to stare at the ceiling to dream up questions and fire the volley of them at my Dad. That felt like the right and important thing to do - to ask and ask and ask him questions. My Dad sat beside me and patiently answered every question I had for him. From all the questions I asked, the only one I remember now is, "why is the colour of the sky blue?" After I had exhausted myself or had found a distraction (TV, I guess), I did what kids do best - got up and ran away. And Dad did what Dads do best - went back to working on the task he had stopped midway for me.
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