10. Sunday

You want to write. But you do not know what to write about. You do not know what you should write about. You want to write, not for any one else for once. You want to write for yourself. You feel as if everything that is to be written has already been written. You want to write about something about which nothing has ever been written. So you start to think. But you do not know what to write about. You do not know what you should write about. You want to write. Quickly do you sharpen your pencil. Your pencil is ready. Then come out two notebooks from your bag. The old note book half full has lost its charm already. You do not feel like writing anything into it. It still is a good valuable notebook to you, but you do not feel like writing anything into it right now. The new notebook is very new. You do not want to write anything into that precious new notebook, until you know for yourself of that one thing that you should write about, about which nothing has ever been written. But right now, you are left with nothing inspiring this very moment. But you want to write. One pencil, two notebooks – one old and one new, an urge to write – all with or in front of you, but you do not know what to write about. So you close your eyes in an attempt to meditate and hit upon that one thing that you should write about now. Not for any one else for once, but for your own self. You see a row of pyramids inside your mind, each with a diamond rotating on top of it. You search for that thing, that one thing you know not what, you search and you search for that thing about which you should write about. Nothing. You give up. You open your eyes. One pencil, two notebooks – one old and one new, an urge to write – all with or in front of you, but you do not know what to write about. The old note book half full has lost its charm already. You do not feel like writing anything into it. It still is a good valuable notebook to you, but you do not feel like writing anything into it right now. The new notebook is very new. You do not want to write anything into that precious new notebook, until you know for yourself of that one thing that you should write about, about which nothing has ever been written. So you pull out a receipt from a book shop with one blank side to it, and on that blank side and you start writing. The pencil moves on, giving birth to words and words as it moves along. And soon the blank side is full. You read it once, fold it and keep it carefully inside your old notebook.