Uma's been after me to put up new posts. And i've been putting it off saying i lack the inspiration. And now just feel like writing when i don't have any specific thing to write about. Thoughts floating. But coming out in a garbled fashion. I can't make sense of them. Do all writers write about their feelings. Is every story a reflection of the author? What about a poem? Definately an emotion expressed. An emotion? It's more a rosary of emotions. Paintings and sculptures. Expressions of feelings and emotions. Love and hate. And regret and anger. Madness even. Even nursery rhymes have meanings. They are filled with emotions and thoughts. They are meant to evoke an emotion. When i went to the Louvre i was lost. I was lost in the swirling of centuries of feelings. Every room, every atom in the museum was filled with a passion. An overflow of love or wonder, grief or maybe just happiness. Every object had a story, and i wanted to listen. I felt foolish in my poor dress of ignorance, while surrounded with so much knowledge and feeling. The same thing happens to me when i go to a library. I love libraries. The smell of books. The dust that covers the books. The yellowing pages, the clausterphobic print. What was the author thinking? Where was he? Why was he thinking like this? What was happening in his life. I drink like a cracked drought sticken plain. The delicious petrichor fills me with a thirst. Each page comes alive with the letters and words, dancing a funnily farmiliar- yet- so- different- from -what- i've- ever- known- before dance. It takes my mind and lets it play on a playground, so insanely strange yet safe. Without boundaries of norm and society. It allows something to be born. Yet is this what he wanted? What was he thinking? Did the author want me to think this way? Hey man, yes you there! What were you thinking when you left open this window into your thoughts? Why did you want me to read about your love? Even if you say this is fiction there is something about you in there, right? Or else you would never have written it? What do i make of you? Do you expect me to understand you? Are you afraid of being mis- understood? Definately there is a motive. Why lay your feelings clothed with the translucent silk of the make- belief? You want to be understood. Or there is simply no purpose. Have you ever been wanting to say something but are not sure whether he would understand. Speak they say. Why are you quiet? Am i boring you? Why don't you tell me what you feel? But then feeling is one thing isn't it? Saying it is another. Maybe the time isn't right. And you know what i wait for isn't it? The right word. Are you always happy, dear writer with what you write. Is that exactly the word that came to you mind? How much paper did you waste in drafts? I bet so many times you have wondered, what if he gets to read this? He will definately know what i mean. Oh no i can't allow him to know my feelings. It would throw away my coloured garb. Make me look plain and expose me the way i am. But the they jump at me. They make me want to wriggle my way through the dense tunnels they have made. They eat into me. I want to know what they mean. i want to know the thoughts. And i want to solve the words that are hidding within the high constructions. I need to find it out. The real thought, the real meaning. The feelings that are not made known, you want them to be known, don't you? If not i wouldn't find you here, in the library crowded between the other books. What about feelings untold? What about those words awaiting the magic keys of understanding. Dear writer, painter of my imagination, tailor of my thoughts, lead me through the anguish of my restless mind, let me see in your creation a way that leads to the depth of your unfollowed path.