Monday, March 26, 2007
Incompletion. That is my power.
I have always pondered over my trouble to write prose; to close my sentences definitively. But it has always been my shortcoming. I try, I sit in front of a crisp white piece of paper, promising myself the following sentence will reach the end of the page.
And I fail.
Night falls, these words beckon and I float helplessly in numb rapture towards them. My pen bleeds, the papers wince, the words snigger. And in their incompletion, I find my power.
Why poems, why not prose? Poetry is just too dense, too distasteful for me; she once said. I smiled, like always, for even in her moods of rubbish, I long to kiss her. Why words, why these phrases, patterns of incoherency?
Simply because they are incomplete.
Prose forces me to close my thoughts like a chorus that closes a paragraph in a song. You got only three, six, twelve, twenty-four minutes to sing; close the chorus, close the para; where's the tune, where's the noise?
Poems are not incomplete, their words are. There are emotions you need to spew and paraphrase in short clauses that long for your curiosity; just like a spontaneous brunch with a stranger you just fell in love with.
I got no qualms reading through books and books of madness and sanity, waltzing with each other on paper that feels like your skin. But at night, when I hack into worlds and worlds of passion and incompletion, I know I have found myself all over again.
Pieces of me wriggle into the spaces you left behind.