Inkling

There is that specific moment when words deny you the privilege to own them, when they slip out of your fingers and get lost in a forest like naughty little children. And you are left abandoned in turn, gasping like a worried parent. Sweat trickles from your temples and you feel eternally blank. Because it is them that you assumed you possessed in entirety. And suddenly you realise you were indeed powerless all the long way. You are now distraught, even feel conspired against.

Because all these years, when you wove stories about the imaginary, women and men, insane women and thoughtful men, circling about loss and love, you thought you were just about okay. When two or three or four stopped by, paused to read those stories about the imaginary and breathed in lungfuls of cold lonesome air, you thought you were good. When you met people who knew you through those stories only and per se were complete strangers to the real person you were, you felt almost proud. You lived in your unfinished stanzas, on the nib of your pen,in the creases of your diary, over the edges of all the minds you touched. When you went through your writing from the past, and you couldn't relate which collation of sentences was based on which real life episode of loss, you felt like God.

But now look here, what you have done. Where you have gotten yourself to. You have reached a gauntlet, fleeing the wavy ups and downs, where you cannot express, with a bare approximation what is it that you are thinking. Whatever is on your mind, never gets your mouth. Everything's lost midway, or kept back as dirt letting only zilch filter out. You feel tonguetied, fatigued even ashamed. Ashamed. Losing your grip on the one tiny thing.

Then the doubt creeps in. Are you not able to speak up because you cannot translate thought into speech or is it because you have not a hint about whatever it is, that thought. Ideas feel like scattered dots. The brain is but a grey mass. With too many complex equations knit into one. 

And the heart. That is unravelable. 

Words are so superficial, to sum it up. Thoughts are inches more deep. And feelings are the deepest. Sometimes, they leave no trail, not even an inkling.