|Source: Pramod's |
Where are those thoughts? Where is that inspiration? The inspiration that would make me write. It occurs as if all of creativity has become hostile to the daily chores of life.
No longer the fresh breeze through the window cools the eyes. Distant horizon where the sun rises n sets doesn't look fascinating anymore. Indeed, it only tells that, it's time to sleep and it's time to get up. I don't remember when was the last time I saw the sun set. White, grey, orange and red.. yeah those were the enigmatic hues on the west sky. Thick black clouds on a rainy day. No... I no longer pay attention.Always found a little eternal bliss in the drop of rain, silence of the dark night sky, bloom of the flower, riding the scooter, finding a song ... what not. Things that people termed boring also looked nice n interesting to me.Now neither the river nor the bridge or the fields, none of them draw my attention. I keep thinking what happened to all those inspirations?
Do you remember that poem "Playthings" we had read in School. Sri Rabindranath Tagore had written the poem. Today I find it so true and worthy of reciting ....
CHILD, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.