I listened to this bubbly Canadian upbeat about folksy pop with more than enough highs her simple compositions of conversation bubbled over with one or two lapses in continuity her self-titled album she gave me for free I would have liked to have liked more, but I could not hear her soul like the time when we talked, which made me feel very sad


The conversation would have gone like this so I imagine. We were in the studio, two of us sitting there. There was a song on the playlist. A decent song, about being faithful forever to this girl. The guy across from me said that song was selected because of its meaning. Faithfulness. I said, “Have you heard all their other songs? Affairs and yet another lover? So, I doubt your judgment. Your judgment is 1 + 1 = 3.” He looked down on that one, but in a moment, pressed the button and played the song. “It doesn’t matter, does it? It does not matter to what we are doing here.” I listened and saw what he was saying. Yeah, it was just a contradiction playing that song, but I pondered over that. Would someone notice the inconsistency? Would it be wrong? Was not enough thought put into it? Or, indeed, did it really matter to them? I went away that day thinking about the human soul and the intersecting lines through it, but without a critical voice to manage it, who would? I guess when it came to the fluidity of soul it all flushes out and works out in the wash. Tomorrow it will be forgotten, except if the critic appeared, to ruin the flow, a taste of whistleblowing.


The quality I see before me

Is a quality I cherish most

That non-violence is the virtue

That liquidizes the soul

Into the soothing pool

Of my inner-most desire


There are those strong souls who keep their joy of writing and can still write about things they would rather not write. I do not know if I would have written anything if it were not for the joy of writing when I first put pen to paper in a meaningful way. I reckon that when someone experiences the joy of writing for the first time is how all other writing begins. At least, that is how I feel.

Unfortunately, joy may not last. When I first played cricket, there was the joy of cricket for the sake of cricket, but then comes performing which may produce pain if one isn’t performing well enough. It can be the same in writing. One’s joy may not last.

Yet pain in writing can be useful. The initial joy in writing is really baby-like and temporal, but there is a time for the pain of learning about what we need to improve on. We go to school. In doing our homework, pain comes at night, but once we master something, there is joy in the morning. One moves on from the initial, euphoric child-like joy of writing to the satisfaction of mastering something.