Poetic Encounter With A Whore-4

Time and again, I am forced to conclude that writing revels itself in solitude.
Circumstantial evidence?
its when you cut yourselves out from humanity, stopping all modes of communication, does the flow of your innermost feelings come out in its most natural form.primarily,when you write, your first communication is with yourself. Talking to your being, the unspeakable, the greatly non-understandable yet screaming to be heard and share in a tell all mode.

Should I admit, whenever I write I feel irritated, grouchy and solemn? But that’s when I express myself the best. That’s the strange world of writer.

And pain is often the most overused theme of such write ups.but it’s a pleasure to express your pain. Probably pain ends when you continuously endure suffering.
My friend, the poet, told me that, so many difficulties have reined on him that he has stopped suffering.isnt it incredulous? Thinking of it, now it’s like, whenever I don’t see any apparent difficulty, I wonder what’s wrong with my natural cycle of life. Its tough to fathom a life without difficulties.life, all of a sudden, seems meaningless.
Aah! That added spice of difficulties which adds flavour to daily chores.

Probably, the day God created the intangible of pain; He didn't do another thing except sit down and smile.
I doubted, but poet insisted, Walk in my shoes, Hurt your Feet, then know why I do dirt in the street. Metaphorical? Not exactly! It does make sense.
He felt so used to pain that he occasionally did not realize the transition of pain into pleasure. The process itself was something to die for! Once you get into that groove of suffering your life keeps on dancing. And yes, that dance does not differentiate between salsa and mambo.

I guess, he is yet to overcome the momentary departure of Stella. What was expected to be a sooner than later return of her's, had prolonged into some eternity. The pre-mature wrinkles on his face said it all.

I would rather be a free man in my grave than live as a puppet or a slave! He exclaimed! But...for few of those days...and few of those memories and the best night of unadulterated passion!

I sat watching, helplessly! Although, I was less than amused when she left away abruptly and yet in a defining manner of few unsaid realities of life!
He blabbered,
Life is a fleeting chance. Try not to screw it up.
She didn't!
If you find it difficult to digest then Read what I mean, not what I write.

I wanted to take her hand and walk through my dreams and while saying this he was swathed in sorrow, as if born within its mask.
Take this life. I'm right here. Stay a while and breathe me in but I never knew, that 'while' would be just an unforgettable night. But always the summers are slipping away, the winter creeps in and I could never witness the blooms of spring.

I didn’t choose the road less traveled, otherwise I would have wondered where the hell am I?? But my road was paved with patience and love which had yet to manifest itself in its complete potential.

He was moaning and with his each moan, I felt a tinge of nostalgia in my pierced heart.

Where sins were once
Not of my own, not of her deeds,
But God had never planned to save our soul...
And I waited eternally,
Standing in an ocean sun.
I dream and I sob,
And I began to hate myself
For the things that I have done
For the things that I should have done,
Standing
On an ocean beach!
In the maze of wonderland
Which could never be mine?

I told you Na, pain brings out the best! And the poet was no exception.
Tears streaming down incessantly from poet's dry eyes.

What I am going trough,
What I am trying to go through,
That I am not trying to tell you anything,
You didn’t know when you woke up today,
And you wouldn't know when you wake up tomorrow!"

He gave me a new lesson.
Pain often craves for evil. To come, to perform, to establish its authority. Not that evil is always undesirable.
But,
“Evil is a concept most don't understand; we don't do things because we are bad people, we just don't know of anything else.”
And that’s where evil sneaks in with hushed whispers and deeds of insurmountable magnitude.

“Dark and beautiful, Stella, the angel with the skull instead of the face is my object of desire, my object of passion, my object of love, my object of hatred and Stella, my woman is my object of sunshine in ethereal darkness.”
Poet could not have said it better. And I could not have understood less.

I asked, she has hurt you! How can you still love her?
Poet gave me an enigmatic tearful smile! I will recite you a quote...

"There are only 4 questions of value: What is sacred? Of what is the soul made? What is worth living for? What is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. You know it?"
Its only Stella.

My life was a destined conflict between light and darkness. The dictate of the Light used to say, 'Know yourself and who you are!' whereas the spirit of dark replied, 'By all means, but then become afraid!'"
Stella did both.silently.prophetically.

Poet said,
If I could just laugh every time I am supposed to cry, I could have made world a happier place. Let me pick up the pieces of an old life? How to you go on? When in your heart you begin to understand, there is no going back or there is?! Who knows! There are some pains that time cannot mend. Some emotions go too deep, enveloping your vague existence...!

"What great prose might be?
Into the sea of chambers,
And sky of silence,
And history listens,
And people wail!"

Well, I will not. I wish, I could say something to poet, my friend. But let me be silent.
As poet said,
“If you find it difficult to digest then Read what I mean, not what I write.”