I feel like writing

It was like a barrage. Continuous thuds being hammered with clockwork precision. Chaos on TV, chaos on the Internet and obviously chaos in the real world. People talking, people screaming, people weeping. But are people really thinking? No time to waste. A second gone unused, a precious moment made worthless. The propensity to make every moment worthwhile is so overwhelming that everyone is always bored. Always looking for excitement. In the Gaia we all revel. Can I actually detach myself from all of this pandemonium? Then I do the unthinkable. I turn off everything.

The silence is deafening. It yells you to do something. Anything. Productive, unproductive. Sing, whistle, scream. Anything. You never yield. And the silence suddenly starts sounding melodious. The rain stops. A drop of rain water falls from the tree and I can hear it crash with a thud. The world is still, unmoved, unfazed. The night grows darker and now the haze around everything seems to be fading away. It is just so clear. Like crystal?

I can hear my heart. I can feel my blood gushing out of it. I think I can control it. I feel my lungs swell up in my chest. I sense the air that comes in from my nostril and that which goes out. I know I can handle it. All my vital senses are alive, but yet I feel helpless. Something is still in a turmoil. Some inkling, of things being wrong. It must be my mind. It is the only thing not in my control. Runs wild, drifts, encircles and finally comes back to where it started from. Am I inebriated? I don't even drink! The urge is getting to me. The impulse to do something. To be productive... to be creative. I feel like writing.

Yes! Writing. That shoddy piece of activity that I once did for pure pleasure. Pleasure of weaving words to amuse myself. It brought smiles. It brought laughter. I wove them the other way and it brought out despair, anger and rage. The permutations seemed baffling. I developed a craze. A maddening addiction to spruce up my diction. Words flew out, words panned out and words made sentences. Sentences making sense, non-sense.

I feel like writing. But there is nothing to write about. Nothing pleasurable to write about when there is so much hatred around. What would you call a man who mirthfully laughed in a death ceremony? I like to think of myself as a lunatic. A cry goes around the city, "Sudhamshu has gone insane"!