No, this has nothing to do with Michelle Branch’s Game of Love.
It is actually about, well, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.
About 20 days into a new year, a new century, and I wake up now. Uffff! I am quite impossible!!I wake up only now, with the remnants of what I had initially thought would be the resolutions for the year gnawing at me, like the knots of hunger that course through the belly of the poor, hungry,homeless souls I see everyday while on my way to work or while running errands for my own material, physical, intellectual and social fulfilment. They seem to be screaming. In fact, they have been doing so ever since the euphoric crescendo of celebrations announced the arrival of a new year.But all these days, I have looked the other way, pretending not to have heard them, deluding myself that their feebleness would grow, they would stop, die down. But they don’t. The voices in my head never leave me alone, wherever I go, whatever I do…
So what resolutions did I make for the year? Or better still, what were the things that I thought I could name them as resolutions. Nothing comes to my mind now. It is freezing outside. Everything is cold, frozen. Even as I try to think of those things, labouring to recollect, one part of my mind thinks aloud. And I wonder!
Why is it that when it’s a few weeks into a new year, any new year, a corner of my mind keeps reciting — like the doggedness of a minister in the corridors of power who keeps repeating the “official line” with single-minded, lunatic persistence —”The best resolution is not to have any resolution”.
About three weeks have passed me by. I feel it’s been a while since my eyes saw these words in my diary: ” A new year is upon me. A new century is upon me. But I hardly know what to make of them. Will they make me or unmake me? I have no ways of knowing if they do either!”
This indecisiveness, this uncertainty will be the death of me. Sometimes, when you want the best of both the worlds, you end up losing both the worlds! Am I losing a world? Does another world await me? Am I losing both the worlds? I have no ways of knowing.
With 2010, I enter the fourth year of scribbling the mindless rant, the random jottings that help me gather myself (inward,only in a superficial way) if not my thoughts. If not my thoughts, at least I can gather myself! But then there are so many things, a mish-mash of things, torn, broken and wasted, lying around me that I wonder how much will I gather! How much can I gather? Organisation, order elude. Disorganisation, disarray reign supreme. Routines scare. Patterns frighten. There seem to be more disruptions than eruptions. Of late. Anywhere. How do you redeem, reclaim, reinvent yourself when everything else seems to pull you in an opposite direction you know little about or have little idea of and, most importantly, have no control over? We don’t happen to things. Things happen to us. All kinds of things!
I look at my blog posts. They are no measure of my professional or any kind of success (I do this for a purely, though creatively, selfish reason), but I would still like to see more of them. They satisfy me in a very strange way. In a way, few things do. These posts are like my lips and limbs. They are me.
I started this blog three years ago with nothing specific on my mind. It will, I had thought, give some outlet to my stupid ramblings. My thoughts that hardly anyone would give any thought to!And then, poetry and short stories happened. I followed the creative urges, which are no less vital than the primal urges, obeying each itch that I felt in my fingers with tremendous devotion, staying up for nights on end, waking up early, bleary-eyed, sleep-starved, but cautious to catch the onrush of expressions. And the posts kept adding up. I count:only 8 in 2007, 42 in 2008 and 69 in 2009.In 2010, I would like to see more. Just like a lover wants to see more of his beloved! More and more and more! I wanted to turn a new leaf with the new year,try to tread a different path. But what path is my path? What path will be my path?
I see people around me peddling everything, from ideas,images, inferences, influences, opinions, authorities to acquired tastes, likes and attitudes. The voices that fall on my ears are both sweet and sour, the faces that surround me are both pleasant and dour. And I am indifferent to either. It is as if I am there and yet I am not there. As if I have company, and yet away from it, away from all — away, far away! As if I am in the thickness of things and yet far from their peripheries! Detachment can have its own bliss! Methinks!
Though I am often in some kind of slumber or stupor (maybe)— deep, pervasive, numbing — I would still like to give myself some credit. At least, I allow myself to regret. At least I allow the pangs of the unfulfilled to fill me. And they do fill me. Like mad. They are mighty strong and recurring. Pangs of not having done this, not having done that.
Days merge into evenings and evenings into nights. And another day into another evening and another evening into another night. And yet another… into yet another…into yet another…And life goes on!