It has been a couple of hours since I opened this window in the hope of writing something. I thought all the tempests that rage within would find a voice, finally. I thought all that unclear imagery and silent violins in my mind would flow through my fingers in perfect symphony to create scintillating prose - so that I can read it for myself and be amused. Its like that beautiful childhood where you made your own toys, played when you wanted to and destroyed when you felt like. Oh! what a dream!
All dreams are just that - they are either your past or they are just dreams. So it is with me. The unclear images continue to haunt - silent violins continue to play - and I continue with the the hope that one day I can write something! Language fails me! May be its the other way around.
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