Me, Myself and Them

A certain amount of thought is necessary. Any less and you’re a simpleton. Any more and you go insane. It’s a fine line, but all of us walk it. We think. And we act. Sometimes, the two are related even.

So fellow blog-brothers and blog-sisters, let’s think.

Question: What makes you tick?

I’m sure you all have your pat-answers ready. Put them aside. Remember, this is a thinking exercise. Pat-answers have no business here. Really. Think. What makes you tick?

Really now? You think so? Okay… try doing this.

Take the last five Big decisions of your life, and figure out why you took them. The Big ones, with a capital B. The last five Big decisions of your life. What were they? Yes, that one counts. No, that one doesn’t. I said Big! Take your time and think. There is a point to this, which I shall eventually get around to. Hopefully.

Done? Good. Line them up. The five Big decisions of your life. There they stand jostling each other. Now tell me, why did you take these decisions? Why did you do what you did? Think about that for a while. Be honest with yourself. Take into account all that your friends, your family, your extended family, your neighbours and the stranger you stopped to chat with had to say. Try and see just how much all of that went into the decision you took.

Now, if you can answer the question ‘why’ to each of those decisions with an honest ‘I wanted to’ and nothing else, you can walk out of this entry right now to the sound of thundering applause. You’ve lived a worthy life. I’m sure you are extremely happy and have already got a prime spot booked under the Bodhi tree.

What about you? You didn’t leave? Damn! You actually took a Big decision that you did not want to? More than one, you say? Oh, that many? You might have taken at least one purely because you wanted to, right? Perhaps? Well, fellow blog-brother/sister… Welcome to the desert of the real.

Advice, counsel, suggestion, opinion, demand, command… One way or another, someone or the other, working alone or in groups, seems to have insinuated themselves into the most important decisions of your life. The I-want-to factor seems to have faded into insignificance, relegated to an insignificant extra in the movie of your life. What happened? How did that happen?

In the past, when I wrote about life, and other related matters, I somehow managed to turn it around into a paean of hope, or at least of defiance, by the end of it. This, I’m afraid, is not one of those entries. This once, I merely try to strip the wool off the lupine external influences that seem to be masquerading as one of your sheepish decisions. That’s done. Now what?

Breathe. That’s the secret, someone once told me. Breathe right and you’ll get most of your life right. And yes, some of those future Big ones… try and do them for yourself. You might get a few wrong. But at least you will be living your life, instead of having it run for you. 

Cogito Ergo Sum

The Write Way

All of us are good at one thing. There are some who are blessed in different ways. But there is one thing that we really enjoy doing. We might not be the best, or even amongst the best. But then the superlative is a relative concept. What matters is that there is that one thing that gives you joy. And that one thing is what you live for, what you breathe for, what defines your very purpose in life.

Some of you might have no clue what I’m talking about. Never mind. You won’t understand this one. Move on.

I write. Words are my lifeblood and the rattle of keys or the scratch of pen on paper is my breath. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. When I’m ecstatic, I struggle to find the right words. And when I’m heartbroken, I discover that I can’t write at all.

I write. I used to at least. And now, I try. This year seems to have been a bad one for words. They have dried up. There seems to be a veritable drought in the wordscapes. But then, I’m not much good at anything else. And so I continue to try. And try. Till I reach a point where I can write. Or…

After much effort and frustration, I decide to write about the block. Attack the demon head on. Maybe that would thwart its evil eye. Maybe that would bring back the words. And so here goes another attempt at breaking the famine. Let the words come.

…

Silence. Paralysing silence. Not a word comes forth. My hands shake in anticipation and I hold my breath as I wait. But my fingers don’t fly across the keyboard. They barely move. My mind doesn’t buzz with thoughts that can scarcely wait to leap on to the screen. There is nothing. And all I can do is report in numb desolation on this morbid phenomenon.

I try again. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have done this all my life. I can write. I can write about anything. I can write as anyone. I can express the pits and the peaks of human emotion. Of course I can write! Day after day, year after year, I have honed the person I was to become a writer; one who writes. I discarded all else as frivolous and superfluous. All I wanted was to write. All that mattered were the words. If there is one thing I can do, that is writing!

I look back at what I’ve written now. I struggled through some of these words. At other times, indignation and fury lent wings to my fingers. I seem to have achieved a few words, meagre yet substantial. Incoherent, disjointed, disturbing. But still words. I have written.

I write. That’s what I do. That’s what I am. And I will continue trying, spewing words out, till I find the old rhythm. Because, in that rhythm lies the heartbeat of my very existence. And till then, all wordscapes will see are these anguished outpourings, these desperate attempts at what used to be. Perhaps I will find a new way of being. But it will be a new way of writing. Because that is what being is for me. Nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Sum