for all the times there was something to write but words did not mean.

for all the times there was something to write but words did not mean.

Writing is the hardest (and only) thing that i've wanted to do. It's not easy. The thoughts that are so clear when i'm dreaming on a train, walking in the night, lying down in my room, taking a shit in the morning, become clouded and impossible to pen when i turn on my computer. I used to blame the machine, but the machine was willing to take only so much blame.

grandfather

Poetry in quicksand, that is love embraced or spurned. My grandpa's words. He didn't seem like a man who had loved that much or that well but these words gave him a gravity otherwise absent, like one of those women possessed during a theyyam. I liked him, not too much, not too little - just enough. i liked what he said about love better. I can't claim to have been in love or not been in love, too much ambiguity. His words were the closest i've ever come to have words express what i felt once or maybe twice or even thrice in my life. I'm hope he did not get it wrong.