For a very long time i was asked, what makes you write ?
I have only one answer , " i dont know ".
There is most often a single word that someone says on the bus, a long forgotten memory, a grandmother enjoying her cup of tea, a child sleeping, a sense of sadness, a really wonderfully beautiful woman walking by, a man lost in thought, a thought process, or life...
I think its that feel, a feeling that you desperately need to transform into words, to capture a feeling, a fleeting thought moment in your life.
And connect to the world, the big picture.
Ah its something wonderful, its a intense high, its a thrill, a lust for more and singular need to express simple things in new light, and at times simple things in complicated words...
If you ask me how,
I do not know again.
Maybe it's practise, that's what i always tell. Its a gift as well as a curse, and once i am in that zone , the words flow, the hands type and there in all its simple acts is a package of words stitched in emotion, weaving a story, stirring a memory and bringing joy, sadness and at times awe...
Maybe it will never make sense, my poems or my words here, may be it makes you think, may be it makes you smile...
It will stay with you for a long time , a piece of me , a piece of my soul...
Travelling in your mind, on your phones,on printed sheets of paper, a trail of words , a window into ...
I cannot give a word to define the madness, a "calling " would not be apt.
My name would be unjust and so i call myself, Pungidasa.
A definition not already defined, a name not yet named.
