To Follow a Train

Writing is a way to free the mind, a way of letting all your feeling out on to a piece of paper, and be done with them atleast temporarily and live a more soothing life, a life where you appreciate beauty in small things like the revving of the engine while you drive the car, the old lady staring vacantly into the distant horizon, rewinding her life to all those moments of joy and of sorrow, of decisions filled with regret, of a hope which had left her long ago on some starry night. Words strung together in a sentence can inspire, create new worlds, bring happiness, fill you with fear, they can move generations, they can build new words, and yet, to read is to be a maggu in life. The written word today is scarce being read, people shun it like the plague. To know that the TV is just around the corner with its infinite number of soaps, comedies and sports, and this is enough of an incentive to stay a mile away from even the crudest of reading material. With Television producers creating shows which would only at best leave viewers a lot less intelligent, we are breeding a nation of people who are ignorant of the happenings around the world, who are crazed by the glitz and glamour of the entertainment industry that all they can converse with ease about is the latest gossip from the “industry”.

My end is a pole apart from where I started off from. The written word is only as powerful as the writer who has written it believes in what he has written. It is a natural progression of thought, it to follow a train knowing not where it will lead. Like so many of the other arts, simply wanting to write is not a sufficient criterion for producing a work which will be remembered by the generations that come. Yet, while we blindly praise the power of the parchment, and that of the fourth estate, some things are ironically beyond words. It seems as if there are somethings in this world, like religion and the power of god, which can only be expressed with allegory. For generations the sight of words on paper has had a mystic charm associated with it, and yet, there are some things which words cannot express. Such is this life, that it seems that Only Jesus Has Answers to me.

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