Did you know?
I’ve been hiding for about three months now. It is difficult to remember that if you choose to enter the stasis box, the word will have changed when you come out. When I went in, I knew. In my mind, that is. It is a bit of a shock to see that.
My world has vanished in quiet flames. Perhaps I have my family – my rock, without whom I would be nothing. I have certainly irreparably damaged my connections to people. I don’t understand why withdrawal hurts but I told it does. I am sorry in the same way that I knew that everything would change when I disappeared. When I come all the way out, I will feel sorry the same way I now feel shock – in the heart. As for the rest of it – well, I never really wanted it anyway. If I had, I would have fought for it. Wouldn’t I?
We are the patches of our parents, teachers, heroes, villains. We’re the quirks we picked up from old friends, habits we learned from family. We’re a little bit of everyone we meet, by being what they want or being what they don’t. We’re touched and moulded and changed by every little thing, some more than others.
Beneath this all there is a pattern to our absorbtion, the things we choose to be. There are influences that are stronger than others, are there not?
We are patterns. We are a legacy of a life lived and a journey undertaken, the final product of an unfolding story.
Three years of this blog (and the older one – but it’s like just the one blog to me) have gone past. I’ve blog addiction to no blogging, to a post every other day. I’ve been reading a whole lot more than I’ve been writing. And I had two epiphanies today.
- I don’t know what to do with this web-log. I mean, I’m not really into journals. I’m not very open, and I don’t think I can deal with spilling my guts – even about, say a neat eat-place I found (Tadka, Jayanagar 4th block). So not journal-blog. The poetry has been leaving me feeling a bit exposed and a bit vulnerable. I can’t put up – just can not – the latest I’ve written. The descriptive snapshots are no longer fulfilling. I’m not writing that stuff anymore.The basic problem seems to be that I don’t know what I want to do, except write something. (I’ve joined ScriptFrenzy, btw. I have no doubt it’ll go the NaNoWriMo way – halfway to the finish line and ka-splat!)
- Camphor-the-reader is an illusion. I’ve been re-reading this past month or two, and I realise that my willingness to read stuff has taken a sharpish dip. Familiar territory, here I come. And that scares me. For as long back as I can remember (4th standard, but I don’t remember much before that except school and rain and throwing salt on leeches in Gauwhati) books have been there. Why am I going off my most reliable addiction?
I’m not sure why this is here. Like I said, the journal makes no sense to me. But I think the ultra-organised logical phase is about to hit me again, which means the traditional blogroll may go back up; and the writing will dry up.
EDIT: #2 is no longer valid. I went and started the Amulet of Smarkand, and segued into the Anasi Boys and StarDust and now am reading O! Jerusalem again. And I am writing too much. Mom always said I did things by extremes. Looks like I’m doing too much rather than too little again. And then will come the burn-out phase.