September 8th 2019

Garuda

Morning was a slow itching day without nothing much to happen. I was feeling sad about not accomplishing my wishes. But I am hopeful and filled with the language of cheerful optimism. The sky lay like an oven of bright clouds. Amongst the clouds I could see Garuda, the Indian mythic bird which is the symbol of the Indonesian flag. I am wondering if my wishes are coming true. Yes, they are and I can feel it in my heart. Seeing Garuda is good fortune and I feel so happy about it. For a long time I have been wanting my life to be stabilized, with more money to satisfy my material needs. I need money to travel all over the world and I want to write my passions out. Now my dreams have started working out my wishes in harmony. I have been very generous with money, giving lots to the church when I had money. Now I have only enough for my needs and I live a hand to mouth existence. My sleep is being regularized by the psychiatric medicines that I take. I have been identified with Bipolar disorder.
To write is to make an existence come alive. The spirit and the soul work behind the scenes creating a tensional harmony. To explore the lands of many people, to taste, touch and feel the manna of experiences is a writer being stimulated. Writing is the four seasons of experience. Summer is elated writing. Spring brings out pathos of thought and feeling. Autumn signifies moods and thoughts of writing. Winter is an occurrence of anguish and angst. Writing is also the art of wish fulfillment. Writing is a therapeutic art. Writing expresses words that cannot be spoken. Writing is the magic of the pen. Writing is the weaving craft of desire. Writing is the character sketch of people. Writing edifies the soul. There is a soul of thought in writing. Writing is the cathartic release of the body. Writing realizes the dream of the writer. Writing pours out the angst of the soul. Writing is a melancholic soliloquy. Why am I writing like this? I don’t know. I am a restless writer. What is the art of the writer? The depths of feeling, the warmth of emotion, the passion of reason are all existential philosophies to liberate the writer. Writing is grounded in the use of the ellipse. One is forced to write out of necessity. A writer’s prose is broken but clarity cannot be decimated. Writing can be an obscure rendition as human emotions are palpable. Where does the writer belong? Am I the writer seeking recognition? Shame on me! I write because passions live in me. Am I being truthful when I write? When I write my fictional self takes over. The fictional self gorges the pen. The real self is subdued and the author is the self – the master writer. Writing happens when one is forced to write and also when the writer indulges in the pleasure of the pen. Writing is the alter-ego taking over. Writing is a mania to overcome what’s a phobia in the real world. Writing is mytho-poetic exercise. Writing can be an illusion of the pen. One indulges in writing as one is forced to love it. Writing is an art of the epicurean self. Writing frees the writer from the self inflicted guilt. Writing is the religion of the writer. The poem is the heart of the soul and prose the body of passions. Writing releases the self to a pure existential catharsis. I am what I am: I am a writer too. Why clamor for recognition? Why seek aplomb? You have to write the joy of the heart in a melodious poem of art

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Two Dreams

I had two spectacular and strange dreams. In one dream I saw a suitcase and in the other I dreamt of a bank. A suitcase indicates a long distance voyage and a bank indicates a lot of money coming my way. I augur that these dreams will be perfectly realized on earth.