anecdotes don't make more than just one mere data point, but often it's the understated that claim tyrannical significance. it never is about the person, but how do you ignore the assault on principles that one would have held as categorical imperatives, only for clauses and circumstances to exclude them as imperfect duties? there is no greater denial of existence, than dispelling the very ideas that one would stand for. there ought come a point when enough time has been spent in purgatory, deeming every punishment as divine justice. no, I will not lie in wilful submission when my thesis is trampled upon.
- researcher notes, before being judged by the scales of censure
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
prosaic.
I haven't written for a long time. The truth is, social networks kill writing and the ability to think cogently for more than 1xx number of characters. It teaches, at most, another style. The style of murdering your words, letter by letter, just so that you get your point across in a creative manner. In a 'I'm-not-whoring-but-I'm-intelligent', 'oh-please-anyone-but-me' fashion. That's trending now. Add a hashtag, and it fragments your thoughts to the point where you get disciplined into thinking about something. And then, nothing.
Writing requires discipline, I suppose. Which I don't have. Because to me, writing seems to be just a release, where emotions are so caught up in the moment and you just seek that very outlet to vent your feelings on. An empty abyss, where you look upon sometime later and find out it's has filled with a strange clarity of thought. Some welling up of nostalgia, like you almost knew the guy. Unfortunately, I procrastinate.
But not today. With that rich gamut of emotions filled up, I ran, jogged, and then walked briskly. A pyrrhic victory in the end, since that very inspiration emptied itself out en-route. But to write anyway, to at least hope that that half-hour of genius did not go to waste, to eulogise that fleeting moment in paragraphs that meant nothing. Nothing but trash, perhaps, looking back. But genuine, and one can never beat reality.
So how does one lose everything and anything, and start with that blank slate of mind when a lit screen of mostly white stares back at him? it is unblinking, except for that damned cursor, that dares one to write. Except for the disclaimer that one needs to input, at the very start, writing at length but not compensating for brilliance, that this is free-flow, unorthodox, ill-disciplined writing that is all spur-of-the-moment. Yet writing a specific form of writing, is exactly that. Conformity. Writing is not a talent or breaking down of barriers or an act of defiance against the norms of the world. It simply is. Is? Is what? What do you expect from 'it simply is?' Nothing. It just is not, not that it is. Since writing that it is something requires you to substantiate some feeling of the moment, flavour of the month, that ultimately is, of course, what it is. Ridiculous fleeting thoughts, twisted, wrung, dried and then pieced, jigsawed and rearranged into your very own 360-piece argument.
I had hoped that this could wait. That the blog would wait until my other trivial travails have passed, so I can really really begin to write. I begged to defer, yet somehow you can't keep the tide from flowing back in, dammit. You just had to stem it, build a dam, divert some flow and hope it turns out something good from a churning turbine of machinery. It's not looking at all either, and I'll be ashamed to call it my own. Some bastard child that ought never to be. Someone that I can't bear writing a letter to. Like a Foster Wallace, only uglier and dirtier. Someone doomed to the unemployment line, queuing in soup kitchens, getting handouts, forever stuck to the lowest 10th percentile.
But so it is. Life is never fair. And things, people exist just to remind you of it. I loved to write, once. I hope I will like it, someday, again, and again. Discipline makes a good writer when one can really get down to write. But discipline also killed the writer in his sleep, but ensuring that all fun is sucked out of whatever he produced. That everything is necessarily judged, first by ego, then by applause. But it cannot be. Feeling, events, people, things, they need an outlet to be validated. Just by writing them into permanence. Into a concrete existence that one day I can point to, and say that I felt.
So here it is, to the joy of writing. I hope I return to these roots. Again.
Writing requires discipline, I suppose. Which I don't have. Because to me, writing seems to be just a release, where emotions are so caught up in the moment and you just seek that very outlet to vent your feelings on. An empty abyss, where you look upon sometime later and find out it's has filled with a strange clarity of thought. Some welling up of nostalgia, like you almost knew the guy. Unfortunately, I procrastinate.
But not today. With that rich gamut of emotions filled up, I ran, jogged, and then walked briskly. A pyrrhic victory in the end, since that very inspiration emptied itself out en-route. But to write anyway, to at least hope that that half-hour of genius did not go to waste, to eulogise that fleeting moment in paragraphs that meant nothing. Nothing but trash, perhaps, looking back. But genuine, and one can never beat reality.
So how does one lose everything and anything, and start with that blank slate of mind when a lit screen of mostly white stares back at him? it is unblinking, except for that damned cursor, that dares one to write. Except for the disclaimer that one needs to input, at the very start, writing at length but not compensating for brilliance, that this is free-flow, unorthodox, ill-disciplined writing that is all spur-of-the-moment. Yet writing a specific form of writing, is exactly that. Conformity. Writing is not a talent or breaking down of barriers or an act of defiance against the norms of the world. It simply is. Is? Is what? What do you expect from 'it simply is?' Nothing. It just is not, not that it is. Since writing that it is something requires you to substantiate some feeling of the moment, flavour of the month, that ultimately is, of course, what it is. Ridiculous fleeting thoughts, twisted, wrung, dried and then pieced, jigsawed and rearranged into your very own 360-piece argument.
I had hoped that this could wait. That the blog would wait until my other trivial travails have passed, so I can really really begin to write. I begged to defer, yet somehow you can't keep the tide from flowing back in, dammit. You just had to stem it, build a dam, divert some flow and hope it turns out something good from a churning turbine of machinery. It's not looking at all either, and I'll be ashamed to call it my own. Some bastard child that ought never to be. Someone that I can't bear writing a letter to. Like a Foster Wallace, only uglier and dirtier. Someone doomed to the unemployment line, queuing in soup kitchens, getting handouts, forever stuck to the lowest 10th percentile.
But so it is. Life is never fair. And things, people exist just to remind you of it. I loved to write, once. I hope I will like it, someday, again, and again. Discipline makes a good writer when one can really get down to write. But discipline also killed the writer in his sleep, but ensuring that all fun is sucked out of whatever he produced. That everything is necessarily judged, first by ego, then by applause. But it cannot be. Feeling, events, people, things, they need an outlet to be validated. Just by writing them into permanence. Into a concrete existence that one day I can point to, and say that I felt.
So here it is, to the joy of writing. I hope I return to these roots. Again.
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