In our village there lived a loan shark who charged exorbitant rates of interest. The interest ranged to 10% Per Month. Many a farmer had to suicide due to the atrocious rate of interest. Once a farmer’s father expired and then he sat on the corpse never letting it be buried in the church. Then the farmer cursed him that he will have a terrible death. When many could not pay the atrocious interest, the loan shark committed suicide. His cadaver was placed in the morgue. And then the morgue started malfunctioning. When the relatives came to claim the corpse, it was rotten and smelling foul. The hospital authorities burned the corpse with petrol. And that was his tragic end
The sun was a melody of music. Tales floated in the sky with mystic silence. Colors of the sun spread a mystic halo. I thank Jehovah Jesus for all the blessings given. The sky wrote with crayons, a tranquil dream. Life to me became a dream of passion.
I think about myself as a fictional self and a real self. The real self is a teacher teaching English in high school. The fictional self is a writer with the passion to write. Sometimes the fictional self is abounding with dialectical narcissism. Sometimes the fictional self is a passionate monument of memory. Time becomes an inner architecture releasing a manifold into letters of prose. Is writing a whimsical flower, or a stoic spear or an Epicurean indulgence? I don’t know. The consciousness of the writer blooms into a lettering of flowers. What is the consciousness of a writer? A writer is a very flexible person immersed in the garden of prose. Writing is a game of letters and words. The writer’s consciousness is brought out through streams of consciousness. Writing is an art of a cubist painting, a calypso of thought submerged in the sea of letters. As a cubist painting, writing takes on narrative shifts in time, and then it experiments with fiction caught up in the web of prose. Writing makes the heart filled with gratitude. Irony flows like a stream in disguise. Meaning slips into thoughts. The words are in a garden of veils. Writing is the canopy of trees. Plato practiced virtue in writing, so too the zealous Christians. After the end of writing, a shy writer like me, examines the body and smiles with irony. Oh what have I done? The architecture of writing is fanciful and whimsical. Writing can be fantastical too. So are the writers of magic realism. There is a writing of combining dreams with reality. Derrida has said: ‘to write is to have the passion of origin.’ Writing is a bizarre soliloquy of fetish, an overbearing waltz of a contaminated self in exaltation of narcissism. Writing is the discovery of the self. Writing is God like tabernacle made to be worshiped. Writing is poetic music. Writing is made for the deity—God to be glorified. Writing is phantasmagoria. Words are shallow streams. Who’s is the writer’s higher-self? Karl Gustav Jung had a higher self called Philemon. Writing is an art of connecting with your higher self. Consciousness is a broken personality of many fragments. Writing is an art of fondling a guitar. Writing is a therapeutic messiah. For a writer time is folded into a sculpture of the present, past and future. Writing as a cubist painting becomes convoluted prose, meandering Picasso-edges, a stream of Dali’s eye and an egg born through the prism of the pen. Isn’t that magic realism? Writing is also very Quixotic. The writer aims to shake the windmills of the mind. Every full stop is death and every new sentence is a beginning.