ABOUT 'HER'...

This is a question I ought to be asking myself every time I mention a female in anything I write, in anything I conceive and wish to take formative shape. And I guess I could probably end up asking myself this, if only I didn’t know the answer already, and since I do, I don’t think there’s much of a point in discussing about that with myself. That’s predominantly why, I guess, I wished to share that part of my mind with you, (whoever you might be) which holds the knowledge as to who ‘she’ is. And I’m not filling a gossip column with this post, no way, and I guess you’d know about the validity of this remark in due course.

True, there was a phase when I believed that a writer is nothing but what inspires him or who inspires him, in which case (particularly the latter) it’s that person or thing that ‘writes through him’, or more precisely, that I do nothing but string words together, while it’s ‘she’ who injects life into my concoction, that it’s ‘she’ who paints the eyes and brings the dragon alive. And the past tense is to denote not that this ‘phase’ is not in existence anymore, but just that I now live a subtle evolution of what I once was, with a hint of a lot of egotism that makes me think like, “Heck, I can string something without my coke, because I’m no junkie”. Sad that I contradicted this statement an age before. I guess that’s what eighteen did to me, while its predecessor was an age of innocence. And yeah, there’s a sense of purpose that’s gone missing too, because until the ‘now phase’, I had a reason for writing whatever I wrote, but now it’s like all the reason’s gone and I write just to show the world that I can do it better than most, again with self-justification, so that I don’t find myself out of order.

So, who’s ‘she’, then? Who do I dream about in the night, who do I want to splash on, who do I want to impact the way she hits me?

She’s no one. I know it sounds lame, but I am justified at saying that there’s no one in particular that I make a subject of my works, not even a memory, or a longing, she’s more like a fact of life. It’s like ‘she’ is always there, and always has to be and there’s no way that I can think the way I think without tagging her in. Because I believe that ‘she’ would forever be a part of what I am, and her lack of particularity doesn’t thwart her genuineness in any way. Which means that I can pass her off as ‘Lydia’, as a non-existent ‘ideal’ girl, someone who’s like me but is female, someone who’s not detached from the real world but is immune to it and cannot be affected by anything unless she wants to be affected; so-called ‘perfections’, you know, but no, not really. She’s nowhere close to being perfect, although there’s a stage where she’d be, the time I first see her from when there’s going to be a slump from infinity, and while her peers, her counter-parts make their way down to below zero, she stays above and we’re balanced against each other, meaning she doesn’t get any lower in my opinion than I get in hers. And ‘Lydia’ is just her name, a name that Mayer used twice, a name that’s sufficiently intriguing, but I won’t call her that, no, because I know that once she gets some flesh and bones about her spirit, there’s a pretty thin chance that she’s not going to be called what I want her to be called, and that’s not going to affect her incredibility in any negative way, although I cannot say the same about a leg-up.

So how do I describe her in a more ‘worldly’ sense? Well, maybe she’s someone I needn’t try to make a mark on, but she’s not someone ‘who clicks’ all the same, for she can turn out to be the one who crushes me the most, one who stamps hardest, and all I can be sure about is that I’m going to like her for that: I’m going to feel nothing but joy in being a part, or a spectator of every little thing she does.

And that’s who ‘she’ is.

UNCANNY

This isn't a heap after a hiatus, this. Not because I want to differ, but because there never really was a non-physical void, I've always been in the game and buzzing at that, the only shortfall being unavailability of adequate accessories. And by the way, if I scared you with that statement, I wish to establish that I'm not really 'retracing my steps', but just tried being the 'me' that I was, and I guess I'm not going to be judgemental about the same. So coming back to 'points' from 'lines', what do I intend to communicate through this post, that's titled in a sort of 'Enid Blyton' way?

Not Blyton, really, it's Nick Drake, which means either way, the British in it is obvious. And I started with wanting to write something about it, you know, it's a substantially intriguing word, that's sort of individual both in form and meaning, and I don't know the relevance of my remarks, but as usual, I'm self-justified and anyway, I thought you don't get words like that everywhere and that I've to capitalize on it, because hey, it's Nick Drake. And that's not it, it's not the end of story, because it'd be plain absurd if it ended here, because this is sort of a first act and no story ends in its first act, right? Well, mine didn't, and neither did it drag long, because as you'd see in the picture, in Nick's own handwriting, the relevance of his use of 'uncanny' is evident, and it sort of merges with my opinion on how one should sleep in the time allotted for sleep, because that's being organized, and sure there's nothing unhealthy about being 'unconventional', but I've got to admit that there're more perks over here than there, or so I would argue, and hey, that's coming from someone who likes being 'on the other side', even if on the other side of it, and sure enough, I bungled that remark, but my point happened to be that by virtue of being what I am, I see myself being forced to take none but the stand I take in this issue. And sure, my words contradict his, but the essence, as I see, is the same, because I feel I'm sticking to myself as much as he'd stuck to what he was, and that's like a similarity of differences. Like he's as firm as I am, and though we are different in the stand that we take, we're the same in the firmness of resolve, and hence the brimming empathy, in me. Hence the admiration. And hence, everything else that accompanies it.

So finally, it's not 'uncanny', but 'Night-time' rather, and the connection comes from how uncanny I think it is, to be writing about night during the day, and though I'm done with it now, (done with the final draft, which could be my next post) talking about how I wrote is like sketching your kind of place, you know, your 'place to be': Something you look forward to being in, being amidst, and I feel slightly bad saying this, because (it's not untrue that) I look forward to the night, I look forward to sleep-off the worries I have and that's an escapade than a solution, because your dreams are just dreams, however adverse they are, and I guess I find them better than even the slightest pain of reality, because you can always wake up from a dream and feel fine, while in the case of reality, it's waking up 'to' than 'from' and that's the thorn, actually. And to escape from reality and the crises it holds up its imaginary sleeves, that I guess is the biggest crime of all, excluding those that are 'heinous'. Because sleep's inactivity, and inactivity is the antonym of 'life' and I guess I don't want to be dead.

All the same, I feel it is uncanny to be write one's views about a commonplace occurrence, a daily thing, because it connects one to everyone else, as it simultaneously disconnects one from everyone else too, because it's not 'everyone' who spits it out, who paints what he or she thinks about things. And that, I believe, is the essence of self-expression.

SOMETHING'S MISSING

It's not a provocation of Mayer craze, but I really feel that I'm missing something here. And unlike every other writer, I felt this revelation of mind, of mine was vital not because I need to inform my people that something's not right with me, but because I needed to talk to myself and I needed to tell myself that what I'm doing is nowhere close to being 'right' and that's not a negation, no, it's sort of the contrary: I don't know that I'm not being right because I'm being wrong, it's rather like I know for sure that I'm not being right, but I doubt if I'm being wrong and there's only one explanation behind this ruckus: I'm being nothing, currently.

Maybe I am being something. Maybe I'm being a boy, maybe I'm being a boy that's trying to be a man, maybe I'm being 18 years old, maybe I'm being an insincere sportsperson because I'm not trying hard enough, and maybe I can stack this ensemble on and on, but the bottom line is that I'm not being what is 'normal' to me, and it's a stage where I'm not wasting time, but killing it, and there's a difference, because wasting doesn't leave a trace, but this killing act, well it's bound to leave behind memories no pleasant than what I am now, and that's an all-time low in bitterness. And I'm inactive, yes, and unproductive, yes, and I'm completely aware of the fact that I can't possibly talk myself out of this, because more or less I have to do something to sweep out the cobwebs and tell the spiders to find home someplace else, and it's not like I'm not trying, it's just that I'm not trying hard enough. I drew something, sure, but it's nowhere near what I can manage when I'm totally productive. I haven't written anything in ages, and music's sounding monotonous to me, except when I sleep, in which case I just don't hear it at all. I guess it's an ailment, and I'm glad to give it my name if it's not been given a name yet.

No words, no patterns, no music, no cinema, no seriousness, but a hell lot of ideas and a notion of this state of mine and that precisely is, this state of mine. Like having three pens and only two hands and trying to write three poems at a time, and I guess I've got to do something to get out, and you'd know it too, on seeing how pathetic my analogy was.