Have you ever been bothered by the endless repetition of apothegm, “If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die” ?
Have you felt the whimsical farrago of passiveness that corrode away your susceptibility towards predilection?
A writer, particularly the one who is falling hard in love, is subjected to an endless, unaccountable torment but the inexplicable dilemma is that you can’t really tell if they’re writing about you or somebody unbeknownst.
Their words intrigue the restless sea to wash away the moment’s doubts, the suffusing madness. But if they choose to write about you, the transform it into an art, an immortal one.
Enslaved to the crystal sunlight, you can hear them howling, “Let go of me!”
Moment by moment, they harness renewed energies while repairing beneath the dolor that consanguined them once.
In their attempt to do justice to unsung songs, unattended paintings and unidentified locations, they fail to do something as remarkably simple as opting for the right discourse.
It is dilemma indeed but writers suffer distinctly as they relive their sufferings within their seafaring souls, recalling it all in a disjunct fashion.
Besides writing, they master the artistry of not making a genuine choice. Their decisions might not make them immortal but their perpetual reality becomes everlasting.