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Sunday, 29 August, 2010

Pure Irony

Alone in the house, walk into a room,


a table with a writing pad on it; a pen lying across.


the clean, crisp page – untouched; blank and spotless – inviting.


the heart craves expression – pristine and unrestrained;


handicapped by form though, expression fails the heart upon a single touch.




Shamanth.

9 comments:

  1. Finally!! I thought you will never come back. This piece is so good. Expecting more.

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  2. @mikim - hehehe :) thanks :) i won't go away so soon :) but then you never know ;)

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  3. What lines! You're a relief to me.

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  4. @ zlaek - I don't understand how exactly you mean that..

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  5. I thank my fortune (or whatever else that external* factor is) that you produce these lines which have a power of their own and diffuse and spread rapidly through my conscious and perhaps, enter the deeper layers of my existence, and leave an impact to last... And that I can experience the impact, sense it, appreciate it, and turn it into a strength in my otherwise rough, crippling life.
    You and a few others (by no means am I bracketing you; interaction with each one is a unique/separate, precious experience) are a relief to all the self-injury I cause myself. It's a relief when, once in a while, I'm able to rediscover my inclinations, who I could be.

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