How To Woo A Writer

Know the easiest way to woo a writer? For beginners, don’t set your sights on being their muse. A writer’s work tends to be a reflection of things they understand, but their minds are constantly preoccupied by thoughts they cannot grasp and concepts they cannot comprehend. A writer is curious and eternally intrigued; what they already fathom will never fascinate them.

In essence, never be a known entity to a writer. Instead, be the enigma that evades them. Be the emotion that toys with their inhibitions, but one they would still give a part of their sanity to decipher. Be an incomplete poem, be a half-written story; be the crumpled piece of paper tossed frustratingly into a bin because they couldn’t find the words to describe what lies within.

Know the easiest way to woo a writer? Be the paradox they couldn’t put into words.

Advertisements

Scraps 2.3

Day 18

I don’t like talking on the phone with you. And I’ll always tell you that it’s because I hate my voice.
I don’t like video conferences, and I’ll always tell you that it’s because I hate how the video and audio never sync properly because of my horrible internet connection.
The only reason we text is because I don’t quite want to go a day without your presence around me.
But if I were to be brutally true to you, I don’t like the phone because it reduces you to sound waves, and I don’t like video because it reduces you to pixels on my tiny screen, and it bothers me that I can’t feel you, touch you, smell you, or know you’re, in the simplest of terms, alive, and metabolizing next to me, because when we’re together, between us, in quiet symphony, even the absolute stillness speaks.

Scraps 5.0

Day 14

It always has a pattern. You meet a great person. You become friends with them. Then come the late night conversations. Finally you confess your love. Not to the said person of course, but to your best friend. Then days go by tearing the petals of a freshly plucked flower called love. And you finally make the all-important confession. And if you are lucky, your love is reciprocated.

But for how long? Maybe a few months. After that it all comes crashing down in a whirlwind of misplaced emotions. If both of you agree that you have somehow fallen out of that love that a week back you thought was irreplaceable while lying in bed, then you are doomed with being just friends for the rest of your lives. If it’s not consensual then one of you leaves scarred, the shadow of which falls on your next irreplaceable love. Regardless how it ends, you leave a part of yourself back to where you thought you will always belong.

But when you somehow think that you have lasted long enough for both of you to be together forever, wake up in each others’ arms every morning for the rest of your lives and do all the things that cute posts on Instagram ask you to do for you to be a perfect couple, then why is it that you still have a figment of emotion left in your head that doubts your significant other and constantly tries to hinder your perfect love life with your perfect person? Is it just the jealousy that other people get to spend more time with that person you thought will forever have your undivided attention or is it because you still do not know if your love is same as the one that your friends have who seem to move on to a next every few months? Whatever it may be, it is certain to wreak havoc in your perfect home. Doubt is something that does not let you rest. It eats you from the inside because you know that the moment you show it, it spells doom.

Why can you not doubt and just stay the way you were when the relationship began and it seemed like neither of you could get enough of each other? Why is it that doubt always results in you deciding to leave the person with whom till a few days back you thought you will have two kids in a nice house with a dog to give you company while the kids are out to play? Why can you not fight the doubt? Worse, why can you not fight the doubt together? Is your love not strong enough to defeat a puny figment of emotion that is swept under the carpet in a dark corner of your brain where you do not even want to go? Because when you have something that you cherish, something that makes you so happy that you do not mind growing old anymore, do not mind leaving people you care about just because you care about this person the most, it something you keep and not something you let go off. You fight for it. You make it live. Because always remember that the night when you had hugged her, you had thought that that place was the best place in this world and that place will never change. Come what may. It may get lost but there is nothing that is lost which cannot be found. There is no love that is ever lost. It is just two people who do not want to try hard enough.

A Letter To Nobody

Day 11

So, I’m quite certain that I shouldn’t send this email because you’ll probably think that I’m a crazy person and kick me to the curb, but oh well. I’m bored and can’t sleep due to waking up about an hour ago thanks to a lovely dream wherein you made yet another appearance in the theatre of my mind.

I am not the type who places any stock in dreams, or thinks that they have any deep meaning. More likely it’s just my brain struggling to make sense of all the random shit that I conjure up during the day in this boiling cauldron that is my subconscious.

This dream however, was interesting, in the sense that I don’t recall having any thought about this certain subject in relation to you, at least not in a very long time. Its been more like I’ve just assumed the combo of our rapidly advancing ages, your aspirations, and our apparent contentment with being alone would make this an impossibility, so I haven’t even bothered to contemplate it. Yet, there you were, carrying my baby.

The first flash of you in such a state was of some intimate moment between the two of us, each laying on our sides, facing each other in a bed I didn’t recognize. We were naked, but it wasn’t a sexual thing. More so it was the comfortable nakedness that only two longtime lovers could share. We were laying there, simply talking, as our heads rested on our respective pillows. For some reason it was hard to take our eyes off of each other as we talked, maybe there was just no other place worth looking in our minimalistic themed bedroom? Or perhaps our respective faces were the best possible thing we could each imagine getting to drink in to start the day? I know for me, yours has always been better than a cup of coffee. Although, for you….I know you’d definitely choose your Morning Joe over my mug every single time. Nonetheless, drink we did.

The Saturday morning light sliced through a crack in our bedroom curtains and lit up your smile even more so than usual. Now, I don’t remember what inane topic we were babbling on about, but what is important is that as you smiled, I laughed, and while doing so I reached my left hand out and placed it on your side, resting on that smooth curve just below your ribs that leads ever so gracefully towards your hips. My fingers gently traced their way down your silky skin, and it was suddenly quiet, save for the chirping of some random bird in our backyard. You still looked into my eyes, you still smiled, but your topic of conversation had faded away into irrelevance, you placed your right hand on mine and gently moved it down towards your swollen navel.

“Feel her?” You said, “She’s kicking again, this one is gonna be fiesty.”
“So, just like her mom then?” I replied, with a smirk.
You nodded…

And then I awoke.

Limitations

It’s only when you’ve reached
your tether’s end that you’re
asked to be patient, and it’s
only when you’ve given all that
you can, again and again, that
you’re asked to be kind, and it’s
only when you can’t, any more,
that you’re asked to go on for
that one last mile, and you’ve
asked of me patience, and
kindness, and tenacity more
times I can count, and that’s
why I sigh when you ask me
what’s wrong, because in trying
to demand all that you can
from me, I think you forgot that
even oceans, in their vastness,
are to silent shores, bound.

Creation

I would say I want to know
your body for all its curves
and undulations and dips
and peaks, but to know your
crevices would require a
sculptor’s touch, and my fingers
are clumsy from refilling my
pen with ink all day, so I’d rather
distill your every inch into a
language only the two of us
can speak, and write you down,
each line, each frown, each
scar, further polished into
yards and yards of poetry that
I read out to you every night,
with fevered kisses as our
punctuation, and slow
rhythms to which we breathe.