I remember the day I wanted to write something desperately. The urge was kind of something inexpressible. I can’t call it tension, anxiety, stress, burden, love, liking, passion or whatever that already has a definition. The feel was something different. Why can’t I call it a motherly feeling? Perhaps I was pregnant with ideas. It was a desperate need to deliver something I had in my mind. I never expected things to be so cinematic that I didn’t have anything like pencil, pen or computer, but a piece of paper. Travelling on a bus standing, wanting to register my thoughts immediately on something, I was helpless without a pen and a paper. A kind of fear embraced me warning me that I might forget the ideas that urged me to write. I knew that I would forget the words and phrases that flashed in my mind. They were cute, exact, simple yet grand and lovely words, but I don’t remember them now.
When I was back home, I had colourful pens, stacks of paper and everything with which I could write, draw, paint or scribble, but not the same words or phrase. I'd simply forget them. I couldn’t get back those words. My brain was totally tired. My heart was helpless. I knew the idea on which I wanted to write, but I was not happy about it. I wanted to make an attempt registering the idea at least. I did. Rather I would say I forced the words to register my idea. The flow was not original and not from the deep of my heart. Those words that I forgot were precious and I felt so great of myself when phrases and adjectives fell into places effortlessly.
Moral of the story is Caesarean Section is not always a happy one for a mother or a mother-to-be. These days I register my thoughts immediately regardless of where I am. I carry a diary, a pen and my Notebook with me. Even if the battery is dead, my diary helps me do that.
