A Writer's Struggle

By Hiranya Mukherjee

The book I dream to write

Is the one I dream to read

The words in its pages

Appear in my mind— blurry

In broken sentences

Make my fingers itch

As I scratch on the paper

Hammer on the keyboard

The kite flutters a bit

The wind rises, the drums beat

The song starts to slide on the rippling waters

As a sibilant tone tickles its sails

The words flow, the scenes surface— one after the other, the characters whisper in my ears—

And then it falters

The wind turns to a breeze turns to

A stillness

The whispers turn into gibberish

From faces, that are half-formed, made of wax, melting…sand slipping out from between my fingers

Claustrophobic

Humid

The sentences don’t end, the verbs seem too chewy, the meat of the motivation seems undercooked, the plot is too paltry, the characters– not crisp enough…

I wonder how the ones who finish their books

Ever do finish them

And are not haunted by what each page could have been

By every word they read.

By Hiranya Mukherjee