Other than a few creepy lurkers and sadists who are probably getting a kick out of hearing me whine, who else would find the shit I write of interest? I often try to go down the path of confessionalism not only because it is a genre I personally love and am inspired by, but also because I hope someone out there somewhere might find my words and feel a little less alone. I know I do when I read about how someone, a stranger on the other side of the world, goes through shit, as mundane as it might be, and chooses to write about it. It is almost like making a new invisible friend.
But recently my blog has been full of nothing but negativity, the tiny spark of creativity and inspiration it had has been washed away by bucket-fulls of nothing but morbid and dull rants.
Perhaps my writing style is to blame. I only pick up a pen, or reach for a keyboard for that matter, when I feel down and have absolutely nothing better to do. So it is no surprise that everything I write has a melancholic ring to it.
I intend to put an end to that, and bring you more interesting content. I am sure I can find more than enough random tidbits to keep you invisible readers, whoever jobless people you may be, interested, at least for a little while.
And may be, just may be, this will rekindle that fire in me again. That desire to write, just for the sake of writing. Not for money, not for grades and not for any fucking cause, but simply because I want to write.
When I was a teenager, I somehow assumed that writing was something everyone did. Of course anyone who is literate can write, but back then I was naive enough to think that everyone who could, does. By writing, I don't mean grocery bills and memos, but artistic and expressive stuff. You know, the good stuff. I thought everyone, everywhere in the world sat down with a pen at night to write everything that was in their heart.
Only when I was older did I begin to realize that not everyone was very fond of writing. In fact, many despised it. I figured that being able to construct a cohesive sentence was an excellent way to bluff your way through exams. A few years later, someone offered to pay me, and pay me well, for writing grammatically correct bullshit. Ever since, the love I had for writing has slowly vanished, and instead I have taught myself to speak in a robotic voice devoid of color.
This is why I want to be sixteen again. I want to sit on the roof, light a smoke and write, like I used to. May be this is what it feels like to grow old, to watch your bones grow stiff and your mind bleary.
But I am young at heart and often as scarred as I may be, I still have enough youthful energy in me to stay happy when I want to. So here goes, from today on I will bring you not the rainy clouds, but the silver lining. And if that doesn't work, I'll just hook you up with someone who sells happiness in a plastic bag.
And here is some happy music to go down with that:
dang, I might just be one of those lurking sadists you spoke about. i do get a kick out of reading this.
ReplyDelete"May be this is what it feels like to grow old, to watch your bones grow stiff and your mind bleary".
i feel like you're 60 years old. i don't know if you really are, or you want to make it sound like you are.
I am not, Anonymous. :) I'll tell you that I am young enough to be happy, and old enough to do so legally ;) And whoever you are, thanks for dropping by!
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