Into the mind; An Apology.
Divulge. Meat-and-potatoes. The mind of a writer is a jade vine, a hanging inflorescence of colors overpowering and beautiful in a curious way. Mordant and idiosyncratic, it hangs torrid and blue, kissing the ground. It speaks in Taushiro and hears only in iambic pentameter. It experiments and metaphases in sonnet, ode and prose sometimes without the general understanding of the masses. Sometimes it finds inspiration in beauty and sometimes beauty in the macabre. It dissects word syllable by syllable. Intense. Using a literary scalpel, forceps and scissors inside a small laboratory which smells of formaldehyde. The mind is a library of thoughts and the mind of a writer is a library of Alexandria. Sometimes it blooms in dark hours, swirling round and round hopelessly adrift in emotionless humidity until it found its Muse somewhere stranded in the dark. Then the hand rape the pen. Purple. Blister. And the blank paper became a beauty with a written language. Then the Muse said “See you next time”.
The mind of a writer is a process. Fragile and interdependent working earnestly itching in between until a known goal is reach. It is nocturnal and maddening shunning company and trading lover’s arms for solitude. It does not afford luxury and works best in company of silence. Feelings is the only known companion and word is the link. On a summer day, it’s illumination is the breeze and the birds, the blueness of the sky and the abstractness of the pictorial view. On golden days, it eulogized love and find joy in the pangs of Cupid’s bow, while on mad days it pays tribute to death and see the black sails of the Aegean sea in everything it thinks. It speaks in soliloquies to abstract audience measuring and contemplating; undisturbed by the cover of Vogue and its contents. The mind of a writer is seldom tired. Tired from the long visualization of pictorial representation of the slow inept words that form sentence by sentence. Writing is a torture ending in joy.
Word is beauty and beauty is word. There’s magic in every alphabet. Each alphabet copulate with each other. The vowels mate with the consonant, the consonant with the vowels, the consonants and the vowels couple among themselves until they are pregnant with oscillation therefore producing sound. Those little droplets of sound. Words. The Plutocratic world of words is rule by the wealth of language – those who know how to play using words, by those who knows the art of juxtaposition in the war of words and by those who think – profoundly. The writer’s words is harsh, sensitive, voyeuristic and eloquent. Sometimes it praise, and sometimes it satirized.
The mind is a beautiful thing. Mysterious, dangerous and schizophrenic.
The sentence of woman is as good as a man and a woman’s abuse is unalluring as a man’s. Equal. A room of one’s own. Virginia Woolf.