My Life, Poetry And Pain


It is our writing is nothing but the continuous process of living.  Why do we live in our literature? Prior to this, we must make able ourselves to survive in literature.' my friend told me further "We can't uplift ourselves beyond the definition of life. How difficult it is to lead a life".
"To write a literature in a single word reserves no meaning unless hearts tie in a life". I told him. The sun was above the roof. Life is worship . It provides pleasure to me. How can you prove yourself without overcoming the difficulties? ' Life that begins from touch and makes a way into the heart is really a beautiful matter in my life.
These modern times of motor vehicles constantly mock at me while I am writing. Crowds of painful voices mock at me from the sides of the streets. I continue writing and I am constantly fateful to search the meaning of my poems on the walls, statues, banners and crowds. May be, it's my own weakness to let hatred grow towards myself. Well, yes, it may be my weakness to find its objective and its goal. I know my friend had said that the meaning of the word "love"' in life are created not like any other word just to write, read and speak.
The meaning of the word ''love" for some to speak, some to write, some to imagine and some others to keep preserved inside the heart. We do employ the word in one or the other sense. As far as preserving it is concerned, it is altogether different which when we select superficially. Perhaps there is no joy but greater pain.
My writing assessed the reality, even when so many years have gone by writing have still kept it within my life. And now I feel that I will escape far away in the same way from where the life ends. And again the days of life start and still like the sunny days I will have to spend many long years further. Sometimes I feel like this selfish environment and this self seeing mind once and for all with force and cry bitterly, but I am powerful not only in my practice but also in my thought.
My days slip by while I am in this very room just like that. I  havenot been able to do some remarkable job except repeatedly opening and re writing my short stories and poems. Everywhere there is pain, and absence of time. Although I know that these days are for creating something, to think something new and to make oneself active to achieve sucess. Why and how I am in this turning point and constantly away from outside life and headed towards thoughtfulness I don't understand.
There is no future of physical existence. There is no story of just living. Life is translated into small stories and small kind of poems. My writing cannot believe it at all that I can keep my life distance and stop writing. How long can I live this life and of imagination? These days I have begun to develop a kind of positive literature even with the shadows of people. I am really afraid of selfish attitudes of people. Everywhere I see minds inspired by selfish interactions, covetousness in the eyes, failure and tragedy. What a picture of the creation by the great painter!
Those were important days when I spent long periods mostly talking on such struggles and problems. I made changes relevant and problem clear all at once in a few words in my writing. I lost myself trying to bring together the words of love and the debate between my life. And till late evening I remained within myself and wrote stories of life. In many parallel turnings of life, I wrote several of stories, tore them, burnt them and threw them carelessly away. There too life was not properly represented in that way as well.  
Now, I am still not able to write everything about myself, about life, kindness, forgiveness, relationship, friendship and to get a look within incoherence has made me nowadays full of  love that the talk of our poetry. In order to be able to write a living poem, I do require woman's power, a power which is endless like my incomplete poem and in the darkness I will remain conscious with my power of being able to write life. How am I to write a true story of life ?
In my eyes too there are dreams like a flower with me. I look at the sky and see it covered with thick clouds all over.I know, my journey of literature is definite, into a direction journey. I am busy in search of equality of life even when there is mostly inequality where I could write the story of another life of my life in the name of living.