This is one place where I feel I can write anything without bothering about being judged, ridiculed, analyzed or criticized. This is like a private journal, where I need not write meaningful, literary, informative, politically correct or funny pieces. Here I can just be my real self and instead of collecting my thoughts attentively, just let them surge over me and write them down. These thoughts may be fatuous and frivolous, but they belong to me. So anyone who wishes to see the softer, grayer and the craggy bits of me, can read my blogs here.
I realize that when I don’t write I stagnate; like still waters. And my unexpressed feelings begin to float like scum on the surface. Sometimes that scum pours over into my interaction with my inner self and my agitation reflects on the outside of me.
I become difficult and moody.
Paradoxically, I am also a moody writer. I don’t care what people say about a true writer having the will and capacity to write anytime, every time and on anything and anywhere. I am the kind of writer for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. I write only when I feel the urge. When I get the itch. The itch starts like a scrape on my mind and spreads all over. Sometimes when I am in a public place and the itch takes over, I look around frantically for a surface, a piece of paper and just anything to quickly scribble down all that I am feeling. I have regularly written on old bills, back pages of bank statements, burger wraps and tissues in the café. I have even written in a dark cinema hall with my eyes on screen but my hands scribbling away on the piece of tissue.
Most mistakes done in dark never appear so attractive when you look at them in the light, but to me those ‘dark mistakes’ appear pristine.
I will be dropping here more often now. Watch out if you wish to connect to the ‘organic’ side of me.