writing

Downtime

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Up until my last post, I think I did have hobbies. Now though, they’re just memories on the wall – the ‘wall’ in this case, being a tiny, less frequented corner of the internet. I started off the new year sort of making a resolution. I thought to myself that I was going to make this work. But isn’t that just the thing with most new year resolutions? Most of them are just mumblings that never come to fruition.

The mind sort of knew it wouldn’t happen, but the heart had its fantasies. Fantasies that don’t often play themselves out on their own – unless you do something to change the status quo. I felt I could and would read or write regularly – like every single day. But obviously, the plan bombed. That’s the power of routine. The influence of alarms. The horror of a new homework notification. You go with the flow and think you’re in control for a while – before life switches to ‘autopilot’, often inevitably. I’ve superficially been wanting to do this for very long. And that’s exactly where the problem is – superficiality lacks commitment. And a lack of commitment breeds a lack of action. It took me minimal effort to sit down and simply start typing this without a plan, without the slightest of hints about where I would start, what I would do, what I would draw inspiration from, and how my thoughts would flow.

I already feel better now than I did as I typed ‘wordpress.com’ into that address bar. Surprisingly, getting myself to do this has been a lot of work (more so mentally, than physically). And I only hope I can continue in this wake – every once in a while at least.

Making time for hobbies is no joke as a graduate student. Having only recently started my workout routine all over again, this part of my life too will soon find a spot somewhere, somehow. It has to if I am to maintain my sanity in the long run. It’s been a whirlwind start to the new academic year, and somewhere along the way, I know I might lose myself in the flow all over again.  There’s little else I can do other than steer myself back onto this path as and when I do come back to my senses, as soon as the storm has passed. This has mostly been a platform for me to vent, to say what I liked, whenever I liked, and in whichever way – it always will be. I can’t possibly explain how exhilarating and liberating it was to click on ‘Publish’ for the first time. I truly hope I can find my mojo with this again at some point.

To the distinguished few who follow me here, this is not the end. This blog will live on – and that’s a promise.

​10 Reasons Why Personizing Sucks!

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1. Obvious Humour:

A statement that personizes anything works as a prompt for a possible obvious scientifically correct statement in an attempt to crack a joke. While the ‘joker’ in question may bask in the glory of his tiny wit, you feel stupefied, annoyed and sorry for their lack of imagination all at the same time.

2. Imagination (and the lack of it):

Practical jokes often stem from a desperate desire to look funny. Conjuring up metaphors can feel good to an enthusiast of the written word; and some people may look down on you,  and wonder why you look so dazed at times. To them you’re the perpetual fantasizer that has lost track of reality. Haven’t you really though? And wilfully too.

3. Helplessness:

You just can’t help it. No, you haven’t lost your mind yet. But there’s no explaining that to your wilful or at times, forced audience.

4. You’re always high:

You don’t have to smoke weed to see what most people won’t. You bring inanimate objects to life at will, and it’s a high no drug can match.

5. No revenge:

You want it sometimes for the mockery that comes with it, but there’s no way to get it. You think long and hard, seeking a way to do it, but find none. At the end of the day, you have to make-do with the fact that it’s them that have the raw deal.

6. It’s addictive:

It clings to you like leeches, and it’s more stubborn than any of those little suckers will ever be.

7. Indecisiveness:

It makes you wonder if you’re stupid. Am I? Am I not? You never have a definite answer. Maybe you are, but that’s one of those rare, right kinds of stupidities. Because through every word, you enlighten a life or two, and even if it’s just one, it counts.

8. Takes varying degrees of thinking from time to time:

It won’t always be easy. But most things that are worthwhile, seldom are.

9. It’s rarely a shared experience:

It’s not something you would discuss with people, so you write about it and wonder if people will laugh at you as you put it out. You are almost sure they will, but secretly hope they won’t.

10. Basically, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea:

Or coffee. Or lemon juice. It’s not a cup. It’s not even a thing. It doesn’t have mass nor does it occupy space. See, I know science. Yes, I stated the obvious, but isn’t everyone fond of that? So when a writer states the not-so-obvious and it isn’t to your taste, let it go. To you, it might make no sense, but to him/her, it’s merely a string of ideas that are beyond the reaches of your mind. For now.

It only takes some trying to get there.

War

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He was a man of few words and often of silence – seeking to overcome mountains of doubt.

mountain-climber-silhouette-climbing-mountain

Climbing that mountain was a tedious task, one he saw as too much of an ask.

“I am no trekker”, he thought, imagining himself crumbling with the boulders.

“Besides, I would rather go for something suited to amateurs.”

“Someday, I’ll conquer this too. Someday.. ”, he said glancing at the tallest of them all.

“Until then, a good amount of practice on the smaller ones will help.”

Classifying his doubts as the minors and the majors, he cut out a strategy to bring them down one at a time. The minors looked easy with their innocent profiles – profiles that hid all their defiance. Five battles down the line, he realised that underestimating the minors was a mistake. And with that piece of wisdom, came more doubt. The antagonist’s army gained strength with every battle it won. More territory, more weaponry – the stakes were high.

The man’s weapons weren’t made to last –swords of pretense soon gave way. The shields his ego had so carefully built started to crack. He was fighting a losing battle.

He knew he wouldn’t win the war, so an alternative suggestion was accepted –there would be a treaty. Neither the doubt, nor the man would bother the other. That way, they wouldn’t have an opportunity to clash and there’d be no battle in sight.

The treaty went through and the man lived in peace for an entire month. That was until all the chaos in his mind came back to haunt him. He had been betrayed, the treaty violated. Peace, yet again, was a distant dream.

He consulted his cabinet of wisdom in an attempt to find a permanent solution. The ministers had an array of suggestions, but none appealed to him. The parliament lacked a sense of purpose.

So he picked up a pen and set it to paper, attacking his doubts word by word. Some perished, some stayed and a few others absconded – victory increasingly imminent with every letter he wrote.

And on the spur of the moment, a writer was born – fueled by his obsessions, relentless with a passion. This was victory, or so he thought. Doubt’s days were long gone.

Tired of the conflicts his mind so diligently conjured, he took to writing for it would set him free. Instead, it held him down with an inescapable addiction.

He was now a soul that was willingly imprisoned, yet inexplicably free.