the Writer

I am the writer
of a story
embodiment of the I
so the story..

who is there to disprove me
if not the I?
I say I am the writer just
of the I of the story
but not just the I

so
recently

I visited
a land

of silence

a land without a word

I would not write
I would not talk
I would not think
but be just
it went there as such

All things
made of sound
like sound of a word – of words

when I was
I too was a sound

muted to be disqualified for any thought
celebrating a symphony of postures

of the dance of the things
made of sound

in which I was a thing
among things

an incomprehensible uttering of truth
made of knowing and feeling

invisible and muted to the seeker

I remained a part

until
I became the I apart

and only then
the writer penned
again.

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Photo by Alin

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