Its getting difficult now to write poetry or to even think about fiction. Feels as if every single line will squeeze the life out of me. That I’ve to be mad, not just a little bit-which I’m already, but let madness take over me in a fit of delirium. Words and sentences, which at first are as garbled as the noise made by the radio when tuned in between two genuine stations, yet which in their absurdity begin to form a life of their own, have to be impregnated with some divine essence like the painter’s madness taking birth in roman signs.
What happened to those imageries of a writer carefully planning his next moves, why suddenly he has to be in a maddening fit to sit between his reality and his fiction, has to be on the border on the verge of a reality he lives and the reality he creates. And there then standing on the cusp.. half tempted by the suicide so many writers commit by jumping into their own stories, yet not being able to somehow escape featuring altogether, he imagines and creates, the former in images the latter in words, another life and world.
Those who are all so sane are altogether dull. Of all the millions of imaginary conversations I’ve had with real people, and of the million of strange twists and turns I’ve rendered to bizarre endings of life’s phases, if even one was real, I would have been sure that I was mad enough. Not yet..