By: Aalam Singh Batth
Sometimes I sit around thinking what I will write about, it is something that is already in existence without it even realising that it is born. I often think about how it would move or behave when its exposed to some kind of external stimuli. It’s fascinating to think that something could move even before it exists.
I think about the thoughts that are yet to be conceived and the words that are yet to be revealed between the commas. In an attempt to write things that are unwritten, I peak into the random things I have noted written in my notes app. Then I lay awake and ponder about them at 5am whilst glancing at the never-the-end, looking for answers and something of substance to write about. Yet, I always have more questions than answers.
This time I find myself sitting sitting with a cup of coffee and a thought provoking copy of Proust, it’s shockingly hot and humid, the sun’s at its finest hour, yet a strong gust of wind combines with the sweat originating from the glacier of my head. The coffee’s cold yet it dries up my throat, the only thing keeping me from getting baked in a bakehouse is a canopy of cloth connecting the roof of the bakehouse and the abutting common wall. The trees along with the light scintillating from the glass tables, paints an absolutely glistering scenery. A scenery good enough for a painter to manifest his palette, to give an eye to a moment that passes a layman in the blink of an eye. To capture a moment so unprecedented that it may never be seen again, needs an inner premonition to capture it before it reveals itself to the human eye. The shutter of a camera does it no justice, the camera only captures it when it reveals itself. However, a painter readies his palette even before it exists.
The thought of writing about manifesting a painter’s palette kept me occupied for a good hour, it was a premonition before a premonition, a thought before a thought. I would surely need more time, something stronger than coffee and something less distracting than a croissant. It would require a creative force, too strong that I’d have to dedicate a large portion of my life thinking about it, writing a painting with the palette of my mind. It’s good enough to break a philosopher into thinking overthinking. But, for me it’s just another morning spent in the bed, thinking about my order at the local bakehouse.
