What is writing an editorial all about? How does it feel to rummage through the crosscurrents of non-printed, miniscule letters, through the pages of multiplying emotions? When does ‘becoming’ an editor count for? Where do all the obvious ways of sanctifying the solace of retarding writing spree merge? Do we call it a confluence of ideas left out by strands of separate menace of huggly-juggly capering of the bottled instances that mark the lives of our writers, or do we actually ‘mean’ that editorial cajoles us out of our sleep? It is no longer the soporific, more individualistic cocoon of an artist or a writer that we count; on the contrary, the entire concept of editorial traverses into a zone that exists somewhere beyond the rattling, bullying instances of the author, the text and ‘who’ and ‘how’ one shall edit them. Thus I write:
In the hoax of the fluttering tenacity of long, muscular sentences,
What remains is a drop of lavender evening…
Like the steamy coffee brewing in earthen pots
The morning unfolds itself and takes yet another snap at the dusky morns that wait outside the veils of eternity…
As words blow out the candles of time
So does the ‘edited’ river flow into the distant rugged landscape
Into the moth-eaten pages of time…
It is Sunday time folks, and the editor presents here a host of lovely writers who have orchestrated their own way at organizing ‘Sunday Talks’- through features, short stories, Sunday reflections and poems.
Wish all the readers a rocking Sunday. Happy reading.
Send in your articles, poems, shorts stories, travelogues, thoughts, reflections, anything that you find creative and productive enough to be part of Sunday Talks.
Write to Sreetanwi at firstname.lastname@example.org/ or email@example.com
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