Words.

I dissolve my inertia with ‘the tongue of God’ — how Eddie Hardrick seductively yet casually defined ‘a poem’, in ‘Blunts’ by Major Jackson.

Bite-sized inspiration serves for bite-sized sparks.

I need something that endures this starchy dullness.

An abstract fondness for words is the sidewise glint,

to gently undo the parasitic clasp of the mundane.

I seek refuge in words to paint a vocabulary, that will be the spine of my mind.

That will transform gasps, squeals, cackles, giggles

into souvenirs of delight when I dig for those in a dog-eared journal.

That will gently dress my worries in a cloak of hope

and make me wonder about wondrous things like Komorebi and –

Wait, why is there no word for scattered moonlight gleaming through tree leaves? Is there?

Words to briefly bind me to the explorations of another mind

across times, and across seas so I can travel differently.

Words to remind that the margin is sometimes more interesting

than the page.

To identify stray fibers of the spirit, and kindly say hello to some

so I can return to myself. So that I can return to others too.

Words to melt, and then to rebuild.

Every moment, I reel in strings of words that can untangle me.

P.S.: Wicked inertia grips the doer hauling an intent.

By the time the intent receives the anatomy it deserves, it gnaws and scratches and demands attention. The guilt can only be battled with pretentious busy-ness sandwiched between excelling at cells and powering through points. This whole waltz is designed, I believe, to cure an aching human need to create. But what makes it a classic Fred-Astaire-Ginger-Rogers masterpiece, although your own version, is to take that first step. Like a skilled potter at a workshop once said to me, the magic begins when you “commit to it”.

So, here’s my overdue blog post, in appreciation of ‘commitment’ — the little bridge between what could have not been, and what is.