Writers write.
Writers are complicated, yet simple. They are monogamous, yet they crave diversity. They are creative, yet they destroy to create.
They break to make, not make to break. They test the strength of fragile to make them strong. They express the truth in a lie, the lie never in a truth.
They manipulate only to cut strings to make it so open, yet so indecipherable. They encrypt where they decrypt.
They worship the devil in prose to make angels pure. They worship the angels in poetry to make others see through their fall.
The rise of vices in not the grave of morality, but it's also the rise of ethics brought about by stark contrast in created imagination in the reader's mind by being totally immoral, with no morality to contrast with.
They dream illusions to create reality. Reality which never existed and can never exist. Yet, it becomes reality. Reality is their illusion.
They are magicians. They pull out rabbits, but they carry no hats. Their fiction is their lives. they live their lives, but they make destinies.
They get played out by destiny. But, they play out their own destiny. So much so, they live longer than their words that destiny let them create.
Writers are experimental. They complete them. They become them.
Writers write.
Writers are complicated, yet simple. They are monogamous, yet they crave diversity. They are creative, yet they destroy to create.
They break to make, not make to break. They test the strength of fragile to make them strong. They express the truth in a lie, the lie never in a truth.
They manipulate only to cut strings to make it so open, yet so indecipherable. They encrypt where they decrypt.
They worship the devil in prose to make angels pure. They worship the angels in poetry to make others see through their fall.
The rise of vices in not the grave of morality, but it's also the rise of ethics brought about by stark contrast in created imagination in the reader's mind by being totally immoral, with no morality to contrast with.
They dream illusions to create reality. Reality which never existed and can never exist. Yet, it becomes reality. Reality is their illusion.
They are magicians. They pull out rabbits, but they carry no hats. Their fiction is their lives. they live their lives, but they make destinies.
They get played out by destiny. But, they play out their own destiny. So much so, they live longer than their words that destiny let them create.
Writers are experimental. They complete them. They become them.
Writers write.
2 comments:
It is but difficult to interpret, even perceive the line between pain and pleasure, between the sapiosexual sadomasochism and constancy of pain till death. This is as similar as horizon separating insanity and genius. they say that there is no limit to imagination and that Omega Point is a hypothetical concept, which you will never reach however deeper you delve into your subconscious or accentuate, rather enlighten yourself to the limits of it. It's like the relativity between the speed of light and a man on legs/car/plane/craft. The moment you think that you have reached there and perhaps this is the end of imagination, You realise that, it has actually become your relaity and like everything else it too becomes monotonous and then you break free searching for new lands, greener pastures seeking greater imaginations, greater illusions and strive to make the delusions in your head, true. These are writers. There is nothing real or virtual for them. they exist as MINDS- exist even without and existence. Nice one abhishek. Loved it.
Thanks, gaurav!
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