Thursday, October 9, 2008

The Errand of Mercy

To be a writer is to know the delight of reflection and the beautiful lament…..

It’s quite late, but I have no particular appointments or commitments for tomorrow, so I reckon it’s alright to finally start writing after years. To finally end the draught. I smile at the words ‘writing after years’, it is funny because I’m only 24.

Why did I stop writing, I am so tempted to yarn out a mournful tale of suffering and despair. It is true, one of the reasons I stopped writing my diary, stopped recording my thoughts, my events, and my life is because (present tense, coz I still haven’t written anything substantial) all my entries had become analogous. This one particular day, back in college (ie when I stopped writing) I was going through my previous weeks entries, and they all sounded so similar, so darn wretched, that I just stopped writing. And I continued to ‘stopped writing’ through my engineering days because I was quite miserable throughout. I was so busy being miserable, that in the process I let it eclipse all my other experiences. I did not record anything.
I did have a great time in college, did the usual, like everyone else… party, fool around , have fun, have lots of my “Firsts”, but unfortunately I let ‘being miserable’ take so much importance that everything else seemed too trivial to record. I feel bad. I do.
After that, I just got lazy… so darn lazy, that even though I was on the dole for six months, and I did not write type a single word.

I did not record my first drink, my first steamy slow dance, my first date, my first flirting lessons, my first flirting exercises, improvisations, playing the so called field, living alone, my first drunken kiss, then my first real kiss (coz I thought it meant something... geez), and then finally my first real real kiss, crazy wild nights with random boys, who later became great friends and found me a darling boy friend, my closest friends, my new set of closest friends, first real heartbreak , graduation, , my first relationship, my longest relationship, my first job, my first project, living all by myself, my first salary, responsibilities( oh it only comprises paying bills, and managing money..Hehe), my first real personal loss; Wow, I cannot believe I haven’t recorded any of these… I remember them all, so so vividly, and I’m sad, coz I cannot remember what I was wearing, what I was thinking, what day was it and what the weather was like…...

‘I think I’m choking up, coz I suddenly realised, my life has been quite interesting, and eventful, and quite frankly rather nice….but I’ve been so pre occupied being miserable ‘.

I write...

My language isn’t poetic or impressionable, my grammar isn’t the best, and my diction passable. I don’t even know what I want to write about. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in years. I’m still trying to understand MY objective of MY being.
I have no quirky tale up my sleeve, no brainwave, no theory….

So where does this quixotic aspiration come from…

I love the idea, the perception of writing. The concept of authors and writers.
I’ve read so many books, numerous stories and tales, each one presents such exclusive perceptions and thoughts, that it’s overwhelming to know that so many ideas, so many expressions of feeling exists on this planet.
Elation, ecstasy, jubilation, euphoria, delight… the thesaurus has like 20 synonyms for plain simple happiness…. And scores more for sadness… and it is remarkable how various authors yarn tales out of these words.

Writing is indeed beautiful; it enables a person to lament; celebrate, exult, ponder, validate, foment, or simply express…

So why do I find it so difficult to write, to express, to record.
I think I’m trying to necessitate writing. Dictate my whims and fancies (the irony is not lost on me). Why am I trying so hard to make sense, why didn’t Harry Potter or Kira Arganouva or Pip ever occur to me? I think I’m trying so hard to emulate an inspiration, that I fail to realise that one cannot do so…..

There is the awareness, the realisation, the desire …. But no inspiration.