The Ghosts are calling

Thu, 24 Jun 2021 20:58:59 +0000

Writing, feeling, thinking, writing a poem or a prose or a story, it’s unlike any other form of creation. It’s not like the content creation of modern generation, blog or vlog or TikToks; it is an exercise of drenching the soul in the hollows of sorrows and trying to swim out of it alive. The best writers of times, the best poets of ages, were never happy people, were never logical or pragmatic, they were all hopeless romantics. Writing, poetry or prose or a story, an observation, articulating a problem or a pain, is unlike any form of articulation. It’s not logical, argumentative, it’s emotional to its core, dripping in love and care, killing the writer with each word, each sentence, each utterance. A writer can’t ignore, can’t turn a blind eye, the very process of sitting down, picking the pen, means allowing all of the world's problems and pain, each tear each outcry each mumble of each liphapless and helpless all channeled through a means requiring no technology no communication just pure divine humanity, just heart and soul, it all flows through the eyes and hearts of a billion through the spine and fingers of the writer to be poured straight on the page, Not in a blue ink, but a page bloodied red with pain. The process of writing about grief or pain has no pride or glory but a not so short visit to hell, an exorcism of a kind, the writer much like every soul she writes about, their bones much like a billion broken tired bones, their muscles much like the cold dead muscles of the corpse, the writer dies at every moment she tries to write about the dead much like the very intention with the reader, very purpose of writing, very calling of the billion souls channeled through fingers ten for the ears and eyes and minds of readers millions, the writer cries and dies at every utterance to describe the pain and helplessness of every million to bring to light the closed eyes and hearts of the guarded billions. The writer dies with every word she writes about the dead with only intentions to kill the readers with trenches of pain, sorrow, grief, guilt; for the ghosts are calling and the writer must listen, for the ghosts are shouting and the readers must hear, for the ghosts are crying, and the living must weep.