Yes - I am a lame writer. I accept that I am not adequately blessed with the capacity to ingeneously weave a piece of literature which can sow a seed of thought in your minds. I had started a blog long time back thinking that I would be able to extrude, from a ramified network of imagination, often inchoate, a skein of thought, which can hold the promise of understanding the vagaries of the human psyche, several instances of which have left indelible impressions on my mind. However, after several pensive hours and cartons of cigarettes burnt, all I could come up with, were a few random musings, which I had then hoped, could one day, be linked up into a surprising and incredible continuum. And then I stopped abruptly and my yearning to uphold a figment of my imagination was nipped in the bud.
It has been three years now. I have not written anything in this interim. And coming back to writing after this hiatus seems to be like a rendezvuous with a long lost friend. But this break has possibly helped me organize myself better - I have come to amicable terms with myself, my emotions as well as with the people around me. The pessimism which had once heavily settled in my mind, creating an impenetrable barrier to all the "good" things in the world, has now been incinerated. I have become very "busy", I have become very "happy". And amidst all this preoccupations I have possibly foresaken my time for myself. I remember myself, three years back, asking the apparently simple questions like "What is happiness?", "What makes me happy?", "What do I owe to the people around me?", "How important am I to the people around me?". I did not have answers then and neither do I have answers with me now. I could not search for these answers and I remember me pushing myself to the borders of insanity trying to answer these "frivolous" and "meaningless" questions. And then...I remember nothing! This space - this very personal space would just give me the chance to speak with myself. There had been some voices calling out to me, but in an escapade into sanity I had chosen to ignore those voices - sometimes, even when these voices managed to impale my aegis of sanity, I had chosen to ward them off with a viscious blow of ruthelessness...Now...I can't hear them. But something within tells me that they are still there. "I want to hear you again. I want to spend time with you again. I want to comfort you again, with compassion and sensibility...just like old times!"
Seems like suddenly something has plucked a few chords in my heart, chords which I am sure, I had heard before, but cannot remember where or when. And, in an almost eureka moment, I felt like - I had a friend to revisit - I have something to write. But about what?...Even after blabbering through two long and meaningless paragraphs, I don't think I have an appropriate answer to that question. Possibly, I just want to hear myself for sometime. Possibly, the next time I read all this, I shall remember an old Sandipan telling a new Sandipan a story, which is not a thriller, not a satire, not didactic, not reflective either, which does not mean anything substantial to anyone else, but is filled with the innocent confusion that youth has to offer. It would possibly be just one way - the only way - back to "all that is good".
It has been three years now. I have not written anything in this interim. And coming back to writing after this hiatus seems to be like a rendezvuous with a long lost friend. But this break has possibly helped me organize myself better - I have come to amicable terms with myself, my emotions as well as with the people around me. The pessimism which had once heavily settled in my mind, creating an impenetrable barrier to all the "good" things in the world, has now been incinerated. I have become very "busy", I have become very "happy". And amidst all this preoccupations I have possibly foresaken my time for myself. I remember myself, three years back, asking the apparently simple questions like "What is happiness?", "What makes me happy?", "What do I owe to the people around me?", "How important am I to the people around me?". I did not have answers then and neither do I have answers with me now. I could not search for these answers and I remember me pushing myself to the borders of insanity trying to answer these "frivolous" and "meaningless" questions. And then...I remember nothing! This space - this very personal space would just give me the chance to speak with myself. There had been some voices calling out to me, but in an escapade into sanity I had chosen to ignore those voices - sometimes, even when these voices managed to impale my aegis of sanity, I had chosen to ward them off with a viscious blow of ruthelessness...Now...I can't hear them. But something within tells me that they are still there. "I want to hear you again. I want to spend time with you again. I want to comfort you again, with compassion and sensibility...just like old times!"
Seems like suddenly something has plucked a few chords in my heart, chords which I am sure, I had heard before, but cannot remember where or when. And, in an almost eureka moment, I felt like - I had a friend to revisit - I have something to write. But about what?...Even after blabbering through two long and meaningless paragraphs, I don't think I have an appropriate answer to that question. Possibly, I just want to hear myself for sometime. Possibly, the next time I read all this, I shall remember an old Sandipan telling a new Sandipan a story, which is not a thriller, not a satire, not didactic, not reflective either, which does not mean anything substantial to anyone else, but is filled with the innocent confusion that youth has to offer. It would possibly be just one way - the only way - back to "all that is good".
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