Writing is difficult when you dip your quill in your own personal inkpot.
Ideas get glued up and go lumpy. They end up tied in tight knots. It then takes a tedious efforts to let them come undone and reveal an often stale and sullen matter.
Like a vehicle whose tank is almost dry, the quill chatters and moves clumsily across the page, unable to determine one way or another.
If he chooses to dip its quill in such an ink pot, the writer firmly believes all the painful ideas he comes up with are his own. And from this pontoon he gesticulates and waves pathetically, trying to grab attention from his peers.
The quill which dips in the inkwell of the Self barely touches the surface of the page.
It whizzes by, one sentence after the other.
Words are dripping like pearls on a necklace…
Simple and marvelous, they draw prayers, mantras and songs.
To God, to gods, to men, to those who look like them.
To the whole universe.
The one who softly holds such a flowing quill is a man in prayer,
a meditating soul amazed by the depths of beauty
whence life is shaped.
If he ever becomes narrow enough to let himself be duped by the belief he really is the writer of these lines, that it requires being who is to let these lines come through…his words get heavy again leaving him in the useless suffering of self-producing.
wishing to tell about himself, he gets quiet and says nothing.
Knowing how to be quiet, he really speaks.
For one moment, this man becomes the inkwell where the quill is dipped,
from there, he contemplates the unfurling of the world.
He has to let everything go to be written along
The pages of the worlds