And the ink runs out

18.1.2020

And the ink runs out

Leaving me stranded

With words still pouring out

Of my eyes, ears and mouth.

I am frozen, as if caught unaware

The openings are jammed with imaginary stoppers.

My words are pushed back inside my head, as if crammed in a miniscule room.

My words are growing claustrophobic, confused at the sudden end to the free flow.

They are falling over each other inside my head.

Getting tangled, fighting among themselves,

And finding no escape, disintegrating.

Inspiration, followed by a sudden, familiar urge to write,

Momentary joy, cut short by a gentle fading of ink on paper;

I am growing desperate,

The words cry out to be freed and not curbed.

And the ink has run out

Leaving me caught

At this crucial moment, when after hours of testing and trying,

And feeling my way around the swirls of emerging literary creation,

I could finally taste it.

Could decorate its frame with words I had selected,

Feelings I had created,

Combinations I had concocted.

Then the rich flowing blue faded to a pale imitation.

The words cry out one final time:

A plea to be freed,

To see light,

To exist independent of me.

But I, not the creator, only the middleman, am forced to ignore,

While I attempt to breathe colour back into the pen.

In those fleeting moments, the door shuts,

The storm passes, the word walls crumble.

It is gone, my dreamlike creation,

Into an abyss more elusive than memory,

And I am left grasping

At fast fading thoughts, lean ends of words and pale phrases.

I shake my pen one final time in the rhythm of the drumming in my aching head,

An unnamed sadness takes over.

I scribble absentmindedly on my paper,

And look down at the large swirls of rich blue.

Ink.  

Petrichor

17.1.2020

Today while watering the plants, I allotted one minute for the ritual inhalation of what only the dictionary would call petrichor. If you do not immediately associate this posh word with its meaning that is the smell that emerges from damp soil after rain, I do not blame you at all.

I could allot only one minute to this highly enjoyable part of my evening, because I needed to ponder over the word petrichor and how someone whom we won’t curse now, when making the lexicon, didn’t even stop to consider what an ill assorted pair the word and its meaning would make.

 The smell of damp soil after rain evokes more than just childhood memories. It represents the eternality and indestructability of nature.

The rich throaty smell of moisture that emanates from the carefully clotted soil in each pot outside my house can be found anywhere, in any land; and it will smell the same. There is a soothing comfort that this phenomenon (I can call it no less) provides that appears in many forms: after rain, and after sprinkling water on soil.

This is why I had to question the place of the word petrichor in the idyll of its meaning.

If it were a sublime manifestation of the cosmos, call it petrichor by all means; but since it is a comforting, motherly embrace of a smell, it should ideally deserve an earthy name not an exotic one.

So I did a bit of poking around and discovered that the word petrichor comes from the Greek words petro and ichor. Petro means “related to rocks” and ichor is the golden blood that runs in the veins of the Greek gods. This still sounded inappropriate so I had to follow it up with some thinking and reconciling.

Though I cannot fully reconcile myself to the word petrichor, I don’t resent it as much as I used to. It still appears unnecessarily exotic but, with my eyes closed, the word petrichor does have a romantic feel to it.

Earlier, I mentioned the permanence of the smell of rain on soil, and now that I think of it, petrichor does seem to resonate with that aspect of its meaning, even though its exoticization of the familiar comforting smell of monsoon is not appreciated.

Still, I think in my mind, I can soften the hard angles of this word by focusing on what it means and signifies: a soothing moment of coexistence with nature.