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Death Talkies: Wheel of Time [Apr/04 P66] (Page 25)

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Posted: 06 December 2009 at 11:12am | IP Logged
Originally posted by Prasanthi

Hey Sookie!
 
Late I am!
 
Alright! Reading the start of this one suddenly reminded me a saying in Sanskrit - " Yad Bhaavam Tat Bhavati". I know that there is no direct connection to this.. but is it not that... What you sow is what you shall reap? Well, amidst all this growth and fun-frolic life, there lies behind a gory effect of an ever-haunting feel of death. As I told somewhere before.. we get to know the value of anything only when tend to lose it. Sometimes.. we pretend, bargain, fight back but at the end its the END only.


:-) Interesting Prasanthi. In this case, he did what he had to. I am not sure if he deserved it. It was just his choice. Death is an inevitable consequence of life. When it arrives, no one knows. We understand value if life when we see it slipping through our hands.
Last line of yours, awesome.

Sookie

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Posted: 07 December 2009 at 9:16am | IP Logged
Originally posted by olive_green

Can't make it here tonight. Reserving my space for tomorrow :)

Edit>> I often wonder, when people die in in such random moments which does not seem fair to them, was it really their time or were they cheated by death?




Its a question one can never answer I suppose. I personally believe now that there is nothing random in this universe. Everything has a place and every event has a time.

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Posted: 07 December 2009 at 9:38am | IP Logged

Untouchable

The cigarette which was clutched between his fingers had crash and burned. Its ashes left a trail of rhetoric questions. The lead of the pencil imprinted emotions, angst, confusion, introspection onto a white paper. The hands which held that pencil trembled and words got smudged at times. There was a cacophony of scratching of lead on paper and exhale of smoke. The haze created by the exhaled smoke watered his eyes and his index finger ached due to constant pressure.

He did not stop writing.

Many had asked him why he wrote.

His answer always varied and was mostly dependent on mood.

"I was bored" "Money. Girls'. Fame." "I was told I was good when I was in school. I wrote. I clicked. End of story." "Fluke"

On very rare occasions, he said, "I didn't know what else to do with the images in my head. I didn't know how to paint, so I wrote."

People called him insane and many called him genius.

"Same difference", he had laughed and also responded.

He himself never knew why he wrote. There was nothing inspiring or glamorous about it, from his perspective. He thought he wrote because he didn't know what else to do. He had surmised after much contemplation. It was that simple and it was that straightforward. At least that's what he thought.

"Your words are like your wayward lover; always around you, enticing you but never really allowing you to take complete control or make you an equal participant in the relationship", she had mused.

"I think what we have is a mother-toddler relationship; the mother always getting toddlers where she wants irrespective of how naughty they are", he had retorted and she had laughed. He thought he should write this line in one of his works. But then when he actually wrote them on paper, he felt like a pimp trying to push those words into a world of literary prostitution. Over the years, he had kept many of words to himself.

"Was it for a girl?" An interviewer had asked. He had looked at the interviewer thinking if he could ever meet a bigger schmuck than him.

"Do you think writing is like getting into an exercise regime to get into shape to impress a girl?" He had walked away from the interview and walked all of eleven and half kilometers back home burning eighteen cigarettes. Once he was back, he wrote non-stop for seven hours and talked to her for two.

"Maybe you should have said it was all for a girl", she had gently teased. He had just scoffed.

Inspiration was never from a person. It was always from an action, an image, a mirage, a memory, an emotion, a smile, a touch, a word, laughter, a suspended tear, an expression and even a sigh. The triggering factors were all around him, beckoning him to come to them.

A sensation passes through him encompassing him in its womb keeping him tucked safe from the outside predators. Once he is relieved of that sensation, he opens his eyes, takes a large gulp of smoke and picks up nearest clean sheet of paper and a pencil stub.

Seasons change, dawn turns to dusk, birds fly home, and he misses her phone calls at least seven times and ignores cravings of his body.  

He continues to write.

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Posted: 07 December 2009 at 10:01am | IP Logged
hey sookie*
again another different story,,of a writer(somewhat u r personal experience )
hmm,,, but yes a writers feelings...
Seasons change, dawn turns to dusk, birds fly home, and he misses her phone calls at least seven times and ignores cravings of his body.
Seasons change, dawn turns to dusk, birds fly home, and he misses her phone calls at least seven times and ignores cravings of his body.
great again..
good wishes,,
sri:-)

P.S:In process of reading u r stories..when ever u update any do send me pm..
thnsk for accepting in u r buddy list or was it for PM anything..!!

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Posted: 07 December 2009 at 10:26am | IP Logged

Hey Sookie!

A writer instinct, right? Very well said regarding the inspiration to write. It need not be a person always. With persons you can speak out. But for an action, image, or even feelings words only express them. They need to be spelt out (written out). Aswesomely worded Sookie!

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Posted: 07 December 2009 at 11:58am | IP Logged

thanks (sorry don't feel like commenting)

p.d: i dont know if i told you, but my name's Archana Smile

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Posted: 07 December 2009 at 11:59am | IP Logged
Originally posted by Sookie*

Originally posted by olive_green

Can't make it here tonight. Reserving my space for tomorrow :)

Edit>> I often wonder, when people die in in such random moments which does not seem fair to them, was it really their time or were they cheated by death?




Its a question one can never answer I suppose. I personally believe now that there is nothing random in this universe. Everything has a place and every event has a time.
 
I so never forget to beleive in that.

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Posted: 08 December 2009 at 4:07am | IP Logged
hey sookie..this was something intresting..
 
he just writes and writes..i guess the pen was his best frnd..
 
he knew the inspiration was'nt a girl..it was just something which came to him and he penned it down..
 
but then i write bcuz i guess i have nothing else to do..
 
n she left him i think..but the pen did'nt..so it acted as best frnd..though its never considered one..
 
do write more
 
-aish

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