Last week was a mess, but the beautiful kind of mess that gives me a touch of euphoria. Between projects hanging in the air, friends around for Easter break, and my favorite play entering its fourth chapter, I sat myself down for a fiction writing class. Six weeks of utter commitment, creation, scribbles and some more scribbles. You know when they talk about effortless love? I think this is it (in the best of its forms), my love for words. It is abiding, and has been organically growing in my heart, for as long as I can remember. And the best thing of it all? Those words love me back, every single time.
Snapshot of assignment no 1 below – Confessions of an alter ego.
“..You can’t read into her. You look at her and you see void, a lack of give and take. She daydreams. Deciphering the emotions of a daydreamer is almost impossible to you. She’s in a constant state of awe, and your slightest move could easily put her reverie to a dreadful end. You can tell it’s her one and only sanctuary. She talks poetry, but then again, she wouldn’t strike you as a talker; more of an observer maybe. You observe too, and so you understand what it’s like to be a bystander. You summit to her silence, a silence you leisurely get accustomed to, a silence that is peaceful, a silence that doesn’t emit rudeness or bitterness, a silence that stems from a minor scuffle between reason and heart. Heart always wins, hence the daydreams, hence the silence, hence the inner peace. You let her be…”