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The book where I had met you




The book where i had met you, is still being written..


I am one of the many words that a writer puts on paper often as a brick in the wall and seldom as the wall itself.  This is how i met another such word during the small lifetime of the language which i was a droplet of. 

The pen had put me on paper so many times through sentences, pages and books forming lakes, rivers, wells in jest and demeanor. I was the pawn who lived in the illusion of being the knight, jumping over rooks and bishops.

I had been there several times bridging gaps between otherwise meaningless colonies of word ants climbing seemigly difficult hillocks and descending cautiously into deep trenches of a flat world of mosaic in a sleepy afternoon partly alive house of pages.  The ants always appeared in order with each other, moving, yet unintended. I sat there with all the might and induced intention in them. I could always see myself, yet never once from the blind side.

A melancholy had been compounding over the last few chapters, an atonement was being conceived in the pen now. The articulation wasn't born yet. Many a word had been written, erased and rewritten, the sound was not met.  The pen, the lake, the river, the colony of words, we weren't moving at all.

The conceived did arrive out of the pen one day, a new color was heard. The atonement  was found by placing me alongside you. You, another me, another disillusioned pawn who had been there in all the lakes, rivers and wells.

There is this one coexistence in time which matters, which makes one feel the buoyancy of self. That i exist, that i am not just one word but i can be a sentence , a whole book, a time in time, if placed beside that one other word. If this coexistence is allowed to exist somewhere in non reality, a word could find its meaning.

Till then I had known that words were the only reflection of the writer's imagination. The one moment of covalent existence enlightened me to the limitations of articulation. Perhaps the width of writer's imagination could many a times not be accommodated in the right measure while sketching into words. Perhaps the poems not yet articulated are far more beautiful in their entirety than the ones put on paper. Perhaps the music exists irrespective of you and me. Perhaps there are many songs, stories, oceans and skies which have not been understood in entirety because of words like me carrying them on our girth.

There are words floating around each other forming  meanings often opposite or disconnected to that of the previous formation. There are words which are there all over the story often in company, often not, yet invisible to the reader. There are collocations where there is coexistence with another word ,  with other words  and in solitude. Yet none of these exist. We are bricks in the wall of mere articulation and not that of the conception.

Books will be written, we would be placed at random places  of nonchalance forever, with some cycle out of the many turning towards a tiny dot in time, where the collocation will suddenly show up again out of nothing.

The book where i had met you, is still being written..




Arpita
19th April 2022
Noida

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