I am a writer and between the lines is where I wield power. My garden, my damn flowers. Words, mine to create and in the flick of a wrist to destroy. In this delusion I found my sanity, in this charade I thought I had found my art.
Little did I know that as I shut the diary, that even little I did not know. My words acquire energy I don’t endow. Some chase each other off the pages like little kids playing tag. Some drunken ones stumble over the edges and have to be pulled back.
Full stops like ice balls are thrown around, underscores become swings in the playground. Words that I slashed because they never made sense, come together and become a family joined in Holy Communion by television cables.
Some draw out their brackets creating wars over who owns the margins, oblivious of the lovers loving at the edges. They harbor love and hate, my margins. Crushed consonants seek a revolution while the vowels try to find validation in their distinction.
My diary opens and I become the fool. The joke’s on me as they sit silently like kids who’ve just placed a fart bag on the teacher’s stool. I bound them in leather so they wouldn’t escape but I end up becoming an alien to the world I create.
Lying within my words are not stories that I weave, hidden beneath them are stories that my lying words keep. But I guess, we’ve become comfortable with lies, my words and I.
But sometimes I wonder, if even between the lines, I do not exist then, where will I find myself?
– Ashwini Rajpoot