On thinking while
about art and creativity, some how, I have this feeling today, that writing is
more tougher art to master that the other forms for painting and music. Though,
I just love the trio together-the three instruments, music, words and colors. And
I guess, I am with the trio, while I share my thoughts. Why I make that claim
is, for the simple reason that the writer does not have the other mediums apart
from only black inked words, to stimulate the sensitivities. Essentially, say
to describe a setting, there are no colors that can be filled, no back ground
music, to provide the metaphysical high. Even visually the image of the setting
has to be filled with only words to fill the void that lies in the ordinary
image of this world. There is no quietness that can be provided to express the
music in silence that perhaps occupies every heart beat. There is not a smile
of child in front to provide the joy of innocent ignorance and perhaps the
laughter to every heart in the world. There are no billowing cold winds to be
felt on a silent morning. And often the oft described image of snow capped
mountain peaks reflecting the moon beam is buried too deep in the human
imagination to be brought forth, in one instant, in a silent moment of
reflection. And it is not easy to bring forth the craving for a tear in an otherwise
quite day, and equally difficult to imbibe the pain of holding it back at its
rightful point.
But there is a simple
practice that one can perfect and still get away being the writer who, is perhaps
born indifferent to the deceit of this world. Well, to have the connection one
that strums the heart or burns it in flames of passion there is always a -setting,
in may be black and white, or with all the playful colors of life in the flora
and fauna. And there is an analogy; flora and fauna- just like two lovers
riding through the valleys, swimming across the blueness of oceans. With their
wings free spreading like open arms with a longing stretched over ages- to have
the void filled with the beauty of his starry universe. Say, the setting-it
could be the very basic like a heart-beat. One, which forever, is to be
preserved and yet is simply forgotten into obscurity; for, everything could
rest, come to a still, but to living, to keep going, every life has to have a rhythm
of its pulse, for each moment that defines the very time of its presence. And
there could be an analogy comprising one that of the last stream of that scarlet
of blood, freeing and liberating from the last heart beat. The analogy is not
the setting of blood running down, but that of a life parting itself from the
only thing that held it tight.
And a string of words
just need to swim deep into your choice of setting and across an analogy of a simile
and a metaphor to describe the hidden irony of life. And maybe then words might
help hear some music or even hear the rhythm of heart-beats float like music through
deep recesses of silence.
