Left: (waking up) Oh no! Another blog to post!
Right: (sympathic) Tired?
Left: (yawn) You bet?!
Right: Maybe you can try giving a break.
Left: (deep sigh) No option.
Back: May I…?
Forward: Go on, as if you’ll stop if she says ‘No!’
Back: Try changing the format.
Right: Sound option there, you know.
Left: (sigh) ------
Right: Write something different. Or different-ly.
Left: I could do that. But do I have a subject left?
Right: Hmm…Have you covered everything?
Forward: Now let us see, what have I written about so far?
Left: On Writing…
Right: Yourselves. Myself. Childhood. Daddy…
Back: …Women. Issues…
Forward: …dogs, love, life.
Left: …death, disappointment, aches, boyfriends.
Forward: That one was neat!
Back: …the future.
Right: …the past.
Left: …the present…
Back: (sigh) I guess you’ve tackled most of it.
Forward: Not in depth, has she?
Left: (incredulous) More penetration? You mean brush strokes aren’t enough?
Right: Collages? Broad sweeps?
Back: She’s barely skimmed the surface.
Forward: Come now, face it. You’ve been lazy.
Right: There is that dream Gagan asked for. You’ve left it untouched.
Left: No, I tried. But you know I can’t write that.
Right: Yes of course, I understand completely. Too personal.
Forward: You tried to catch the flights upon waking.
Back: (murmurs) And she kept notes. All those notes, hurriedly scribbled before they fade…wasted?
Left: Did, except, I can’t use them. Can’t lie and pass them off as fiction.
Back: (kindly) You could try.
Right: You know she doesn’t lie, not on the tip of her nib.
Left: You are the only one who understands me, Rightie.
Forward: Sorry, why exactly can she not write a dream? Care to explain?
Left: Symbols are too personal.
Right: Dreams are too naked.
Left: Disjointed backgrounds are so difficult to make comprehensible.
Right: Yes, too much to disclose.
Left: Too nearby for comfort.
Back: Aren’t you the one who says everything’s a mere stimulus?
Right: How ‘bout a book write up?
Forward: (peps up) Or film?
Right: What’s that blue thing you’re reading now?
Left: (very low) Michel Danino. The Lost River.
Back: But she hasn’t finished it yet.
Forward: Talk about the ashram. Of faith.
Right: (whispers) Is she the correct one to talk of that? She has none.
Back: Shouldn’t that go in the ‘other’ blog? The one that didn’t take off?
Left: (glum) Yeah…every time I log in, blogger reminds me ‘No posts. Start blogging!’
Right: (sympathic) You take your time.
Forward: Don’t. You haven’t much, my dear.
Back: Excuse me, does it go here at all?
Left: (perplexed) I don’t know. Who will read yet another blog? I’m not even a real writer.
Back: What is real in a life that migrates out to the unreal at its both ends?
Right: The same ones who do this?
Left: (thoughtful) Do they now?
Right: (gently) You know they do.
Forward: Isn’t that why you feel compelled to not stop – they are who you’re ashamed to let down.
Left: Hmm…who I wake at 2AM to write for.
Back: Thank God for those readers. You at least make the effort.
Left: (sigh) Yeah, I know. This peculiar goading that feeds this fire, I don’t know to what finale.
Back: Finale? Death is life, my love, if you begin to question all culminations.
Right: If there’s nothing else to it, then you have to cook something, dear.
Forward: (gleefully) More gobbledygook!
Left: (resigned) Yeah, I better think up something.
Right: (compassionate) ---
Back: (ponderous) ---
Forward: (gay) ---
Left: (sigh) ---