Words

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For me, the words are frozen. They reluct to come to me. I coax them day after day. At nights, I lose hope but the wilful persuading commences the next day. An illimitable routine of mine. From covering my tired eyes in the morning to visualising pristine scenarios at night, I run and run endeavouring to catch those words. I would secure them into sentences and craft a story.

Seldom, I get a hold of them after days. At that moment, I press the red button, profuse of scratches, with the words held captive in my mind. I wait for a while. The screen lights up, and it pains my eyes. I do not care. The words seem to be getting away.

My fingers move effortlessly over the keyboard. Transferring those words in a document, I do it swiftly. I don’t want to lose them again. They are always so clever. They abscond mutely. I have no recollection of them again.

I look away, at the folds of my cotton robe. It's crumpled and the energetic colours which were used to adorn it, have now faded. The texture is rough for my calloused hands. Stray strings popping out of it.

The morning is cold with the light cool mist floating in through the windows. The laptop lays welcoming on the table, waiting for me to write. The cursor blinking in and out of sight. 

I see Eric. His lone picture on the half-visible desktop. 

"For Eric, she was frozen. His ears heard the same monosyllables every time they started a dialogue. Nevertheless, he tried. He hazarded some words to break the monotony of the days. 

'Hi!'

'Hi'

'How are you?'

'Good'

'I'm fine myself', he verbally expressed managing a presentable smile. And he was left again, in the inelegant silence which enveloped them every time.

He was trying to win her heart. Cliche.

Her eyes had an unrealistic sparkle that drew him closer to her, at the point where he craved for her. Her smiles, her wordless actions, her beautiful mind were fascinating features that made up her beautiful form.

But she was something he couldn't reach."

The words are over. I scramble to find them again, everywhere in my mind. 

The desk is painted with unintended blotches of sparkly purple acrylic paint. Vague paintings are drawn in procrastination. The scarce left-over colours after the composition of a piece of art, form the blemishes. 

The painting sits on the table. A failed masterpiece. 

"Her hands marked with colours, move the brush across the page. 

A circle is completed. Few curved lines around it. A basic eye is created. 

The eye is happy, with wrinkles at the corners, like the eyes when you look at someone you love.

She could imagine the mouth under it. Stretched wide in excitement. 

After every stroke, a smudge of paint joined the others on her hand. 

It was moving this time, the portrait was a bubbly stream of spring. 

The strip of paint involving both the eyes were finally done. She left the room, never to come back again. 

The eyes were left waiting."

Maybe I can't be a writer. I am passionate about things I am not good at.

"Now Clara does nothing. Nothing to make her happy. The thrill of pursuing stories has no changing effect. She is left to spin unjoined sentences of the sights she perceives daily. The story isn't formed."

The eyes are still happy, in a dry room, covered in dust.