What Writing Means to Me

At first, I wanted to compose this post as a poem. But, that would mean another poem on my blog. And, I have had a little too many poems on my blog within the last one year. This, in one way, diverges from the original contemplation on writing. But, wait. I don’t wish to begin this post with a negative thought. That’s is how much writing means to me.

My writing is my ambassador to you. It means so much to me because it is how I express what I feel. Usually, I don’t speak much. Yes, for a lot of my friends, I am an out-and-out extrovert. But, deep within, I am an ambivert who leans, in fact, toward introversion. My words convey what I can feel but can’t express, can see but can’t report, and can write but can’t speak.

Writing is my textual meditation. It is the way I introspect. Just like one must close their eyes to see within themselves, one must pen their thoughts to sieve through to the core. The clearer they think, the clearer they write. And, the other way around. My writing is my soul disguised as words.

Writing for me is like composing verses in prose. It is a melody. A song. There are sentences of all compositions and lengths. Some are long. Some, longer. A few, like this one, shorter. True! The long and short sentences convey the long and short of it—and everything that lies within—to the readers. Mentally listen to yourself when you read varying lengths of sentences. It sounds good. Good, because it is rhythmic. Good, also because it means that the melody is as important as the messages conveyed through the melody. My writing is a lyrical composition that I can hum, listen to, sway along with, or fall asleep to.

Writing is like a mirror. It is that sense of contemplation that adds a dimension of meaning to reflections. It isn’t only the reflection of oneself, but also a cause to reflect onto oneself. Writing is that catalyst without which the inner and the outer selves don’t equate. No reaction, whether it is chemical, is ever complete without a word of thought. It is that skillful, scientific art; it is that masterful, artistic science.

Writing is that folklore that records, refers, and rekindles life. It is that act of play where you are both the actor and the audience. Writing is both the pen and the ink that scribes your acts, with or against your will. It is both the cause and the outcome of your performance. It is also the background score that amplifies emotions without your knowing.

To me, writing is the means, the medium, and the end. It is as nameless, formless, and transparent as water. It originates with a spurt, from within. When it begins to flow like a stream of thoughts, it seeps and snakes through people’s minds, one after another, finding its way to you, who after traveling for miles has got down on their knees to enjoy their glittering reflections. When it flows from my heart to yours, it becomes a burbling river. When it becomes an ocean of emotions, you can watch it hug the limitless skies at the horizon and experience it wash-off the rare conch shells of revelations to the shore.

The most rewarding writing, however, often trickles down your cheeks as pearls of love. What does writing mean to you?

The Delightful Life

Beholding the sunrise,
As I trace the ocean’s footprints on sands,
The drenched shore slips from under my feet,
Life becomes a delight.

Trailing through the woods,
As I listen to the rustling leaves that
Share with me the recitals of the Summer,
Life becomes a delight.

Humming that old song,
The forgotten lyrics of which
I happen to effortlessly sing,
Life becomes a delight.

Looking out of the window,
As I lull into thoughts that
Urge to kindle my imagination,
Life becomes a delight.

Weaving itself into a fabric of chronicles,
As the yarn of my words
Brings me to my self again,
Life becomes a delight.

Diving into the limitless love in those eyes,
As I happen to lose myself,
I happen to find myself, yes,
Life becomes a delight.
©Suyog Ketkar

I am Your Echo

I have this to say to my parents and gurus:

Flowing through the air are the glowing ashes of my smoldering.

If the smolders of karma be my destiny, then I am your echo.

Singing through the dark woods are the verses of this destiny.

To make this song of life melodious, I am your echo.

Dancing before my eyes are the glories of tomorrow,

If I am to attune to this rhythm, then I am your echo.

Gazing the horizon are the flights of fantasies

If I have your wings, then I am your echo.

I’m eyeing perfection but am set to fall and rise,

If I can learn from my mistakes, then I am your echo.

Raging inside my veins is the blood that calls for the undone.

If I can voice my dreams, then I am your echo.

© Suyog Ketkar