Hello everyone! I am back.
First of all let me apologize to you all for not being here for so long. I am sorry to have ditched you like that. I should have said something before I left. I had a series of MBA entrance exams (my Indian friends would know). It doesn’t mean that I was studying all the time but a intense feeling of guilt took hold of me whenever I chose to read or write instead of doing the permutations and combinations exercise. Anyways, I couldn’t concentrate on reading. For me, reading works as a ocean, where every dip I take gives me a new idea about what I should be doing. so when i couldn’t read, I couldn’t concentrate on writing anymore or anything else for that matter. But enough of this, now I am here and I am here to write and I am failing at it.
I am making a desperate attempt to write this post with full energy but I don’t know why I just keep sinking into serious stuff. I was so damn sure that my come back post is going to be a humorous one, but I can’t think about anything funny. Actually I can’t think of anything to write about. I am sitting here questioning myself why am I doing this. Why do I write? I don’t know why. So what do I know?
I know is that when I am not writing I behave like a machine, working in a monotone. I respond to my family, but only say what should be said. I do weird stuff to please them knowing that it would make them feel good, but can’t feel the joy of it myself, instead it feels like a responsibility. I eat, I drink, I sleep and nothing feels any different than it was yesterday. I live my life like the cursed pirates of the Black Pearl. Feelings come to me rarely and when they do they come like the hour hand of the clock, very late and slow and flee in a split second. I become objective when I am not writing. I feel like I am losing interest in life.
And when I am writing, I feel my head filling up with things, random things, happened in vastly different time-frames and having no relation to each other. And with these things come emotions, and feelings, and sensations like sweaty hands and a heavy head. I can feel the blood running in my veins, the air brushing against my hair. I can even feel the temperature differences in the air surrounding me, a bit warmer near the brain and a bit unhappy around my hands and feet. Its like I have some kind of superpower. I don’t know if it’s good. If i am superhero or a super-villain. I just take pleasure in knowing that at least something is happening to me. That I am not monotonously passing through time. That I am doing something for myself. Something that I can take proud in, even if I am no good at it. While writing, I feel that I am different, not like the herd. I feel superior knowing that I have something that they don’t. I can say that I write. Not many people do it, not many have the courage.
I write to express myself without caring about criticism. I write to make the day count. Above all I write because it makes me human again, like the ones described in the best of stories.
Why do you write?