Quite matter of factly I started blogging just to catch attention of people, to be noticed and maybe to be even taken seriously. I never quite caught on with the phenomenon of blogging initially. I just wrote different kinds of things, poems and all and posted it. I had always fantasised about being known and renowned for my writing ability. I was a clear cut wannabe when I started out on the blogging circuit; I actually thought blogging would impress the ladies, hard luck there. I made a blog wrote some poems and forgot about it, after some time I read a blog and the spark ignited again but I had to make a new blog. And like that I was never constant with one blog. A few posts and I got bored and left. This happened over and over again. Until I struck upon the idea of the Prince of Prose blog.
I declared the blog open with a very proud and whimsical introduction. Aptly followed by a very dark poem about a beggar. It was quite a disturbing and hopeless time in my life. The 12th Board Exams had just gotten over and I was struggling with college. It suited my frame of mind and hence I made the blog. I poured all my angst into it. Sometimes creativity, sometimes thought sometimes just someone else’s Apricot. Then college began, along with the journey of fiction, I wrote two incomplete novels at 12000 words each.
I’ve missed writing in the blog for 3-4 months at a time but I’ve still stuck with it. So on the occasion of my 50th post I thank you all for sticking with my blog, my long obsessive and flowery writing and my irregularity. Thank you all, I’m very much indebted to you!
Love and Thunderstorms have a bond that spans beyond chains of time. Nothing beats sitting on the balcony in a wicker chair; listening to the clasps of thunder and the erotic patter of raindrops. The splashes made by the children jumping in the potholes and the cars swishing by. The old geezers cussing the weather gods and the young couplets holding each other close, not to let the warmth escape. The street lights flickering and casting long shadows into your room as you slowly dim the lights; letting the flickering red lights emit an elysian glow outlining your form. You slowly extend your hand and bring your loved one close to you. You hold them in a tight embrace. All worldly matters seem so distant; it appears as if you exist in a bubble.
The phone rings and it’s time to say goodbye. The heart never agrees but the goodbye is a compulsion. You walk down the stairs with flying kisses and a heavy heart. Suddenly the rain seems so harsh, so unfair. You stand in the rain waiting for a mode to transport your butt from the roadside to the comfort of your home. The cars swish by, splashing muddy water all over your clothes. You cuss the cars and the old geezers call you a loudmouth. You continue on your dreary path until a benediction rids you of your bother.
You enter your house looking exhausted and quite disheartened at the goodbye. You wish it could have half an hour more, an hour more or maybe even forever. The dispersal of thoughts from your troubled mind rid you of grief momentarily. You go stand in the balcony and listen to the rain again. You wipe your fingers and your world drenches in high notes and guitar wails.
And thus be the facets of the Storm. Many faces yet untold.