Self and the written word

It shows how every individual personalizes every relation in their lives and customizes them according to their needs. It something that pricks you, provokes, prompts and evokes a reaction from you. 

I have often speculated the possibility of residing with the consoling thought that all I need to do to maintain my illusion is to write to myself is precisely what I’ve been doing since years. Just in case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, all this while?

When I assume my forward position to pen, I mean type, the minutes which go run between the dim, dark screen lights itself to life, clean shaven ready to be demarcated and bleed with someone’s finger pinning letters which gradually turn into words and embellish it with meaning when conjoined in a sentence. When each second is an ephemeral transitory catch of the glimpse you compose, then at that concise moment I wish to write about advancing and vocalising myself, not everyone can do it, I owe it someone has given me my cultured upbringing which allows my rustic emotions to be translated into cultured expressions. 

What makes me a part of this gamble, do I have something valuable to say, to contribute which each one of you is oblivious to, really? Do I stand on a pedestrian when I stop you and make you read? I’ve always believed and thought of myself as more of a reader then a writer, I understand when the impulsive reaction is resounded by most, as to how when you feel instinctively and urgently to write and say it aloud. I want to defer the thought , the stance of someone accomplished in the head, I have a long way to go, even before I begin, with this understanding and still convoluted thoughts I continue writing and sharing. A much more noble effort, no? sharing. What grandiose.

The futility of it, of all of it of the repetitive, seemingly new moment packed with ruffled obligations, the pleasantries, the conclusiveness of the decisive moments. Barren words bereft of an idea. Disappoints me. The uncounted silencing sadness is lurking everywhere I acknowledge, seek it. Doesn’t every plot hold a conflict? Doesn’t every story essentially have a demonic figure, not in absolute terms but in relative- in modernising contexts but in post modernistic terms?

The Buddha in me, silences me, holds in me the residual of the calmness in me, churns the egoistical thread which runs long for me to appear distinctly away from everyone and be essentially the same in molecular terms. I believe it’s very important to ask right questions and for me the right question has always been to ask and to question “ weather this worlds, universe is diverse or the same” it makes certain sense clear in your head as to where to place one and everyone you meet. Isn’t that why we ask where the other belongs from? To facilitate our conversations? To form an opinion and finally to exist, as they are the indeterminate points of existence today, what you opine is what determines you. isn’t it ? much our battle, is fought with where we come from and how we seek to evolve in our environment.  

How much of the, too much, is detrimental? Certain things picked from various spots is what your comprised of know? An aggregation of the set  atmospheric surrounding? Is our disappearance imminent then how do we evade it by blotting it with our own, supposedly assumed, presumed selves. It all emerges from fear, everything, our patterned existences are charted out because of the fear induced in us, through agents of the forces of the indeterministic universe. 

Nothing conclusively can be drawn from here, only certainty that nothing is certain. In the end the struggle ends in consolation, that its going to end someday.  

Would like to end on a quote- “I write because I want more than one life; I insist on a wider selection. It’s greed, plain and simple. When my characters join the circus, I’m joining the circus. Although I’m happily married, I spent a great deal of time mentally living with incompatible husbands.” 


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