Today, that urge, that excessive urge, to scribble or scrawl, again. A word. A line. Anything. I sit, for hours, thinking, thinking and then thinking some more. A blank sheet stares in my face, looking at me quizzically, trying to gauge my mood, read my mind. It has happened before. So many times before. The threads of thoughts mingling, mangling in my mind: incoherent, fractured, disjointed. I sit and look on — dazed and confused.
It is always like this, at least in the beginning. Things refuse to be endowed with clarity, precision. And it can be painful, at times. To keep moving your fingers without knowing what you want to say, to write. This ambiguity of purpose, this vagueness of thoughts, this haziness of mind, this uncertainty of expression, all this is so beguiling, so enticing. Ah, the mystery of the unknown! Ah, the excitement of the unpredicted! The fun of flying with the wings of maybe!
So, what do I say next? What line should I stitch together? What do I talk about? May be I should write a poem? For this piece of prose doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. But the poem, at the moment, eludes too. Like someone you love, but he/she doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight: so close to you, your heart, and yet so distant, so remote. The poem doesn’t happen, like much that doesn’t seem to be in my world. And I, suddenly, seem to think of Borges:
In vain oceans have been squandered on you, in vain,
The sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years, and they have you used up
And still, and still, you have not written the poem.
Writing, sometimes, most of the times (for me), is an act of pure cerebral serendipity. And I wait for that to happen. How about some music, then? May be it will refresh, reinvigorate? So music now. How about Ramble on (Led Zep), only? It goes with…well, the mood, doesn’t it?
Leaves are falling all around,
It’s time I was on my way.
Thanks to you, I’m much obliged
For such a pleasant stay.
But now its time for me to go,
The autumn moon lights my way.
For now I smell the rain,
And with it pain,
And its headed my way.
Ah, sometimes I grow so tired,
But I know I’ve got one thing I got to do…
One thing to do. Think, may be. So, I think, again. Ponder over my world, a little. Again.
Sometimes, I wonder why I write what I write. Sometimes, I also wonder why I am the way I am. And stuff like that. I also realise that what I write is basically a sum of my different parts: the parts that think, reflect, gather impressions, images, experiences. Most importantly, the part that feels. And feels strongly. About my place in the world. About my identity. About my ambitions, my dreams, my desires.
My aims and objectives. About the ultimate aim of my life, about the ultimate end of my existence. About most of these, I am clueless, vague, indecisive. I look for help, here and there. And then, tired, look for some celestial sign. Nothing reveals itself to me. Nothing dawns on me. No sign. No hint. No suggestion. I trod along. Move on, mistaking milestones to be destinations, hurtling from one shame to another, one blunder to another, one pain to another.
Meanwhile, Led Zep are halfway through their song:
Mine’s a tale that can’t be told,
My freedom I hold dear;
How years ago in days of old
When magic filled the air,
‘Twas in the darkest depths of mordor
I met a girl so fair,
But gollum, and the evil one crept up
And slipped away with her.
Sometimes I wonder what can you possibly do unless you feel for things? Unless you have that burning passion, that drive, that fervor, that zeal. So I feel.
And then set out, again. To bring on board a medley of sentences that capture what I feel, how I feel. Well, what I feel at the moment is to write. And write endlessly, write needlessly. So I do. Through all these words. Here. Some people, when they feel terribly sad, absolutely lonely and hellishly bored, they don’t say that in as many words. How many words does it take to state that state? Sad. Lonely. And Bored. Finish.
Yet another way, ingenious perhaps, is to try and find ways and means to express the same, though not in as many words. But many, many words. A story. A poem. Or just some wild ramblings. For me, perhaps, it’s the last. I ramble on. In the dead of night. Latching on to one word, and then another. And then another. And then it goes on…on and on…
In a haze of recollection, the day’s images appear before me. Some faces. Dear, benign, loving faces. Meeting after a looooong, really looong time, relishing food and one another’s company. Another face, another dear face, showering on me innocent streams of smiles, warmth….I am so grateful for the love of people around me…so grateful to each one of them for being what they are… my eyes moisten as I think of them, one by one…sometimes, some people make so much difference in your life without being unaware, unconscious of what they do….each day, day after day. It is because of people such as I know that this world is a beautiful, beautiful place….A paradise of people, they…
I can go on, but I gottta go.
For now’s the time, the time is now. To sing my song. I ramble on…