What about the infinities trapped in one’s own heart?

The tail of turmoil inside the writer’s head.

A piece by Black Ribbon


There is always some kind of melancholy lurking in a writer’s mind. He has been through something, seen something or even done something out of this world to pen those pearls on paper. It isn’t easy to give justice to your story, to your feelings and experiences on paper.

A writer’s story is slightly different from a non writer’s. He has a real story and then that same story is contorted into many different forms and possibilities in his head. A writer tends to see people and situations as characters and incidents in his grand world. He forgets that perhaps he could be a character in someone’s world as well.

7  billion  people on this planet and  writers happen to be so self-centered so as to create more stories, more  characters and more infinite worlds. Someone needs to lend a pen to the stories of real people and the real infinite feelings trapped inside their souls. 7  billion  souls. A staggering  number.

To write something this  magnanimous is an overwhelming  task. No writer could possibly encompass this much of information  in a combination  of  mere  26  letters. The  expanse  of  this  world  is scary  and what is even scarier is the  fact  that  it  cannot  be  morphed into  a form we can understand

And what about the infinities trapped in one’s own heart? Writers find it difficult to pen those, let alone this universe of feelings and thoughts. Within  the  smallest  of the smallest  atom  there  is  a  universe,  and  then  there is the universe itself. How can  one  put  words  to something  so  indescribably  vast  and  inexplicable? 

It’s  a mystery  and  a  tragedy  that  even after being  a part of  this web, being  a  part  of  creating  this endless  madness,  we  cannot  describe  it simply. We are incapable of grasping our own complexity and power.

We haven’t yet discovered the power of our mind, our stories and their consequences. Even after containing a universe within ourselves, we are but a blip in this vast universe. And  that’s  the  tragedy  of  our pitiful situation.

 So, how  can  writers  put  this perplexing  condition  of the  world  and  the  ones  inhibiting  it,  into  words and  sentences  and  paragraphs? It’s so  gigantic  a  task  that  even considering  embarking  upon  this adventure seems like  stuff made from the most bizarre of our dreams and perhaps, universe.

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