Death Talkies: Wheel of Time [Apr/04 P66] - Page 22

Originally posted by: olive_green

Reserve for #7 :)

Edit

why i called this #7 i have no clue...its been that long eh!
I knew the reason, but now I forgot :-(. Yep, its way too long...

"I didn't know what else to do with the images in my head. I didn't know how to paint, so I wrote."

"Your words are like your wayward lover; always around you, enticing you but never really allowing you to take complete control or make you an equal participant in the relationship", she had mused.

Inspiration was never from a person. It was always from an action, an image, a mirage, a memory, an emotion, a smile, a touch, a word, laughter, a suspended tear, an expression and even a sigh. The triggering factors were all around him, beckoning him to come to them.

Seasons change, dawn turns to dusk, birds fly home, and he misses her phone calls at least seven times and ignores cravings of his body.

He continues to write.


and for what?
is that his passion...the strongest one...

started quoting what i liked..realize now that....the entire piece is powerful..and i may have as well quoted the entire thing.

inspiration comes in all forms...a taste...a memory...an action....a reaction...a smile...a tear...a step...a nudge...and the list is endless...your words portray that angst..that...drive...that propels him to write..and write more.....more than what he is made to endure...he is human after all...but still...he ignores everything else....and he continues to write...

is it healthy?
and for what?
no one knows....just those images in his head...that will never cease to flow..

it took me a long time to get to this...always caught up with something else or the other...but i'm glad i did...this was powerful..and yet i sensed him helpless...at the mercy of a higher power..that he has no control over...that propels him...and he writes...as he burns cigarettes after cigarettes and...lets its smoke consume his life...

i hope that made sense...

A

Originally posted by: spln

Inspiration was never from a person. It was always from an action, an image, a mirage, a memory, an emotion, a smile, a touch, a word, laughter, a suspended tear, an expression and even a sigh.


u summed it ALL up there... for me. i never thought of it hence, but yes. it is NEVER a person. even when u dedicate it to them. even when you write it solely for them. even if... u write OF them... inspiration, for all of it, is always, an altogether different thing... so detached... u begin to wonder how u ever linked the inspiration to write what you did, to who you wrote about... the words i reckon... must be the link! :)

yeh, undoubtedly, your best! and can i even begin to tell you how it gladdens my heart to read NON morbid stuff from you, on Dt to top that!!! time to find it a new title, shall we say?!!! :)

Originally posted by: Sookie*

Hey Bhoomi,
thanks for your comment. Actually, I will have to disagree a bit here. Almost all talented people have some sort of a habit. I have a German colleague who is a genius programmer drinks coffee non-stop. As in he drinks at least 15 cups a day and is a caffine addict. People have certain affliction towards something to keep their momentum going.

thank you for liking it. :-)

Sookie

Originally posted by: bhoomikauttam

U disagree saying all talented people have some sort of habit? but where did i try and say that .. i guess i agree to that ..its just i can add that all talented people can have habit but not all habits are visible...

actually i was trygint o mention that the kind of person u mentioned its so very real and i feel i can relate to it even if i havnt met him.. the mind pictures him well..and as a writer can feel a lot of emotions while readign this piece...

anyways have a good day..tc

Bhoomi

They call her mad, insane and a lunatic. She does not know what she is. She is loud, she smells of cheap liquor, lost hope, forgotten memories and sweaty clothes. People laugh and mock her when she passes by. She glares at them. She glares at everyone actually. She thinks people are laughing at her predicament. Sometimes she thinks they may be right. Few young mothers have taken into hushing their kids using her name as an excuse. Even with her insanity, she wonders how a human, a peer in the fellow species, is considered as a threat to another human. She thanks God that she is insane to not to understand this complexity.

Kids play pranks on her. She does not understand why anyone should play pranks in first place. She yells to show her discomfort. Kids laugh and adults snicker at her expense. If I get change of clothes and smell nice and talk the way they do, maybe the adults would admonish the kids, she thinks. People see what they want to see, her mind dictates. Her mouth however sprouts something crude which annoys the villagers even more. Her heart hurts for not being apologized to for silly pranks played on her.

She lives by the rules which she has made for herself. The rules of the society do not apply to her and she believes that she will accept only those which her conscious allows her to. She calls people around her zealots and bigots. The men ignore her indigenous static verbal backlashes while women mock her for the lack of her social etiquettes and many call her misanthropist. She ignores their words. They call her a woman without a conscience; because if she did, she would have taken their words to heart and tried to change her behavior. You have robbed me of my conscience, she argues with them. They do not understand what she means by that. She is too insane to explain the constant but subtle abuse by society and its participants. Being treated as a social stigma did not help her mental state much either.

The disjointedness between her heart and mind results in her madness, she believes. There must be a consciousness in her which is detached from the mind and that is what makes her act the way she does, she muses. Even for a mad woman, she has her moments of utter clarity and that is when she realizes that she misses her baby and she wishes she were dead. Like every other moment, this one passes too and she forgets everything that she thought about before.

Once her mind and heart are shunned to darkness, her insane mind tries to find reason why her face is wet all of a sudden. The moment is forgotten and she moves on to search for integrity under crevices and corners of shops. People laugh, she ignores and she lives.

Insanity prevails humanity.