Writing from my Bones🔗

I love to write, mostly about my Master. In the presence of the Master, in the absence of the Master, in the shadow of the Master, all I do is to write. I love writing so.

'No writing today' said Master one morning.

I left my notebook outside, but I carried my pen. 'If I can capture all the energy of the Master radiates, into this pen,' I thought, 'how much and how beautifully I could write.'

That evening Master directed a laser beam towards me and said, 'Don't split hairs! No writing keeps out all the tools too.'

The pen scalded my hand. It was a live coal. I dropped it on the floor. It burrowed and buried itself in shame. For days I wandered like an orphan. There was so much I needed to write. Writing was my lifeline. I felt suffocated.

'Master!' I cried one day, 'Master! Save Me! I'm going mad!

'So! You're all mad anyway! All who come to me is crazy one way or the other. Otherwise you won't be here', He threw His head back and laughed, His mane forming a halo around Him.

'I need to write Master! Please! Let me.'

'But you are getting addicted to it.' He was serious.

'But it is a harmless habit' I argued.

'Harmless, Look at you! You are having severe withdrawal symptoms.'

'Are you calling me a junkie, Master?' I was concerned.

Master smiled and moved on.

I sank on my knees, and after a while, I curled in fetal position. Slowly tears, hard and salty trickled down my face. They dried. No more tears. No more tears for my love. 'Go on' I heard His voice say 'Go and get it.'

'What could he mean?' I wondered.

Go, Go where? I love walking. And so I set out. Tramping the steaming thorny jungle, heaving through the teak forests, and finally into the cool shade. I felt heavy and sad.

I walked to the large teak tree with a buttress twice my height. I felt an insane urge to hug this giant. I clung to its swaying form, it rocked me gently. For an instant, I was one with the tree. I felt the forest vibrate with joy. This was bliss too. It flowed not from a pen.

I sat there in joy, in bliss, content at the wordless state. When I came to I was in front of Him.

'Can you write now?' asked the Master.

'Yes, Master' I said and sat in front of Him.

'Where are your instruments?' He inquired with a twinkle in His eye. As an aside He said, 'This is my scribe intern!' Laughter rippled everywhere.

'Why are you not writing?' He asked, as if he knew not the answer. Master loves to play!

'I am writing, Master' I replied, feeling so calm, yet bubbling with joy.

'Does anyone see the instruments?' inquired the Master. Not a head nodded. Not a ripple of murmur disturbed the sheet of silence.

'All right. Come out with it' said the Master.

'I can't explain it Master' I said.

'Try' He said simply.

'Master, your energy pumps my blood, drives my muscles, and keeps the body moving. But Master the energy is deeper than that.'

I sat silent, only experiencing it. 'When you write, you write not with your mind, hands, or head. You write from deep within. You write from your bones, your marrow and your soul. Every word you write about me is an echo of your soul' Master reassured.

I know that now I write only from my bones. Someday I will write from my marrow and my soul.