{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Sunday, August 20, 2006

A Tale - 2

In a dark silent room of ones mind, with just enough light to see one word at a time, enough thought to form one sentence at a time, someone sits, word by word, truth is woven, the light in the room increases, the darkness is at time understood or at least acknowledged. No shouts of rhetoric will ever spoil that word of small truth, no god will ever pray for it, it will exist and it will survive. Several such pages will color a book, a picture of life might emerge, another image of life may get shattered, there is enough pain in the room and there is slight truth in that, and there is little joy in the room and there is ample truth in it. Someone sits, smells and sweats of imaginary, touches the real, sleeps on the paper and shits near by.

A written word transpires out of the living flesh, that is sure of its demise, that is sure of others demise too, it is sure that written will outlive him, even though that decaying body writes, flesh writes to raise above fleshiness, to put spirit to matter, to put some being into non-beings. Its not above anybody, it just raises onto itself. A win, a very personal success.

A thousand spoken words will not erase a single word that is written, not shout will ever blow the paper away, no book can imitate life but some will rise above it, will become portals to those silent rooms where they are written, word by word, flesh to spirit, puff of smoke to fire. No book will be greater than life but some will breathe like life. No book will ever move, but some will spread their fragrance. No book will ever speak but some will be put to tune, paper to sound. No book will ever capture the whole world, but some will capture the inexpressible. No book will change the world, but there will be some that will point to the problems and say it should be. No book will ever stop the people for interacting or expressing them but some will express and interact as no human can. No book will ever substitute any of your senses but some will become the extensions of them.

A though lying for eternity, unattended, unsaid, is there for a book to pick up, someone will pick it up and put it as it is on the paper by himself, devoid of himself.

The girl with decorated locks thought about the lie she told to the fish. There is no such book. A book that reveals all. Filled with memories of the unchained past, a love that never consummated, she took a pen and a pale paper, sat on the bare hills to fill the pages. A book may emerge, it may not. Fish of the far seas, went to the far seas, in search of the book of revelations, it found nothing, but swam the pacifics and atlantis, may be it can write something about the experiences sometime, the upstreams and downstreams of fresh water rivers, the salt of the sea, the world and its waters.


Alok said...


anurag said...

dont bother ! I wrote it so I posted it anyway. I think its better than no posts :)

anyway, you have made the smallest comment here :)

Alok said...

Perhaps you should consider contributing to the journal of experimental writing from India or something :)