What still matters he is a Writer

Is he a doleful lunatic , a promising gentleman or a half-hearted human ? I do not know nor I will dwell in those judgemental inspections of his personality as I have met him in words ----the words underlying his numerous abnormalities, eccentricities and complexities. I somehow know a writer let loose his painful pangs inside the writings but he is different in so many ways I can not count on fingers.His each word is veiled in wires of sanguine suspense , the more I read him the more I loose the grip of atlas of my own thoughts. We have no spacial dimensions in common all I know reading him flowers my petty imaginations. I at times picture him holding a pen in between his plump fingers or other times I paint him setting off his dusty lashes on the pages of Dan brown's thrilling fiction . I so much long to see how words oscillate on his starched paper when stormy breeze sews hails at his pores. I wish one night I explore His wonderland like Alice and sneakily see his eclipsed soul squeezing downpour from the pomegranate sky.  He often calls himself in his poems 'A Man of steel' or a citizen of "Vampire Land" where human corpses are cheaper than ashes but still his syllables carry the enticing flavor of divinity. What keeps his emotions equilibrated I wish I could ever know.

How he extracts meaning from the grey whiffs of wintery frost? I really know not. There is no match between I and him as He sees what I can not see. He thinks desert hides a blue berry walled cataracts while I find desert a valley of cactuses accompanying scuttling snakes , canopied by the gender less sky.
 I shiver with a thought if someday he ever asked me to write on Fall I would take a decade to write only one inappropriate sentence that it is a season voicing funeral's symphony of bare maple tree. In a jiffy he would reject my sentence and instead write back to me heaps of meaningful poetic phrases. He would say Fall's dawn caresses its dusk with golden towel of fog-wet leaves. Probably he would ask me to wear binoculars or keep my eyes squinted to explore parsley-hued and lemon-veined carpet of buds during encroaching summers. When I won't learn a bit he would stop mentoring me at all. God how he takes the weather so personally when thousands of people like me can not? To seek the answer some night my system would blow out. He with ease compares his tidal pull of emotions with shrieking , splashing and jolting waves. Sometimes he calls clouds as a sky filled with snow or at times he tells his readers that stench of puddles is sweeter than the aroma of lavender. If his similes are exported from West , his metaphors are borrowed from East and the final product , to my surprise ,turns out to be an identity less piece of art resembling none but Him. To be honest I often parade with poise my treasured diction to match his aesthetic skills but sweat clutters beads upon my forehead and then i realize even my body has given up. I muster up my courage to write a review of his work but then I coil back burying  my fright beneath the bulks of roaring silence. A strange writer he is ,his words rent my air and grabbing his writings I make sure my ferry veer straight into his sea with a silent prayer that may it stay there forever.                                    

The myth is writer's soul is wedded to a Scorpio which has fangs that punctures heart. People say they are drugged-out, long-haired and Long-shaven and their lackadaisical eyes sunk in the sockets of dark circles reflect their numb and cold hearted spirit. They destroy the virginity of papers by spilling ink and fill to brim bundles of them. Others think they are lonesome creatures who inhale solitude and exhale broken dreams. Even if he is of any kind or he lives inside the inferno of haunting serenade or if he is a member of thundering and hammering heaven I bother least. As what still matters he is a writer.




Copyrights Reserved to #Paras Ali/ 2016