Every time someone has asked me to start my blog again, I have had to sit back and wonder but write about what? The words were there,
the ideas as well, but something always made me close the word document after
the first line.
There’s definitely no scarcity of topics to pick from. One
glittering boon of tech advancement is the bubbling and babbling pond-world of
the internet, where you dip a finger, and there you have - all the mundane and
not so mundane, the crazy, the brilliant, the loud, and the quiet, the ignored,
the forgotten, waiting to be picked up, talked about. Type a few words, let the
insta-search produce humorous, reader friendly socio-political articles, lengthy
in depth, lived in, in situ analysis, and thesis about almost everything under
the still warm Sun. Every thought, every fragmentary, partially formed shred of muse is
documented, published, displayed. And witnessing this rumbling mill of
activity, I feel stunned, and quite envious. For these armies of writers-analysts,
who come from different vocations and practices, have so easily mastered the
concepts of literary theories, producing engaging strings of words seemingly effortlessly,
whereas even after four years of continuous training, I fumble about the idea of literature, poetry, frankly, intimidates me, and I struggle to find the confidence
to pen down, to give form to my muse. I am a disheartening case.
Thus I have had to sit back and wonder if it is still alright
to talk about the simple; autumn sky and the lazy afternoon, the tired salesman
who asks for a glass of water, the rooftops and the memories, the failures and the fears. May be everything has be said and told and discussed, but there is a chance we will find something new if we start again.
