Oh, how I wish I could go back to those Times

Oh, how I wish I can go back to those times
Waking up to the smell of decoction
Freshly brewed
The steam from the filter coquettishly melting
Into the nothingness of air
A croon from the tape recorder
Canvassing the morning’s backdrop
In hues and pastels
Of monochromes, grey scale and bit colours
A cassette fixated within
Wounding and unwinding its roll of film
One spool to the other
Discharging a melody
Palliative to the ear

A melodious discharge
Of triggering dependencies, it was
For even bathrooms and WCs demanded independence
Back then, refusing co-existence
Attached units, bathtubs, overhead and hand showers
Existed in books genre’d under Royalty
Or establishments five starred
Tiles, marble and granite
Ranked and reserved for the poshest
Of grandeurs
And ceilings and concrete meant
Cementing the bowels of the structure
Disabling any falseness or shallowness
In a revolving mixer

The disabling shallowness garnished
Travel sojourns with
Conversations and exchanges of
Self-trotted journeys
Dotting every train station en route
Representing a different colour from the wheel of fortune
Or playing cards dealt in an uncontained
And unconfined fervour
On the lower and side berths of the
Adjoining compartments
A slice and dice from one’s billet
Locking horns with another’s
Until
The terminus loomed into sight
And the passengers
Lost amidst the crowd
Once more, as they were meant to be
Only to repair in the warm
Coracles of their home

Repairing in warmth, it was, for
Anonymity mattered, moreover, preserved
Dear Diaries, LiveJournals and Reddits of the time lived
Secretly counting their days
Of restrictive glory, until time
Snubbed their momentousness
As selective segments of individualistic pages
Began to be
Trafficked, lesser to share
Better to demand attendance and attention
Instituting high maintenance
Flavoured with
Knotty angles and naughty corners

An era of discharging, disabling, repairing
And instituting it was
Oh, how I wish times had paused there
So that I needn’t go back
For, instituting meant setting in motion
The beginning of another era

Setting in motion another motion it is
As humans identify needs
Wants and desires, seeds sown for greed
And convenience
Night falls paved the way to
Artificial lighting
Clothing opened the
Way to fashion
Mobility led
The way to vehicles
And the inability to communicate
Harbingered beatings; mental and physical
And technology

Harbingering beatings it is
For our race
Continually has sought, what it can’t lay
Its hands upon
As greeds cascade to desires
That are spelt out as wishes
In turn, sentencing into needs
All meant to be defined, sooner than soon
As elementary
And, a couple of eyelid bats later
A birthright

A time of batting eyelashes it has become
For, we must be handcuffed
This time, by force
To go back
When out looked upon
To moments that seemed simpler and undemanding
Even if it means
Writing once more on leaves
Through quills
Precedence to walking over the attractive yet destructive quilt
Of laziness and lethargy
And embracing one another bare-bodied
Devoid of a manicure, a shave, or a shaped brow

Embracing the other bare-bodied, it is, for
We’ll be nothing – a nobody – after
Stripping our identities from social media and
The internet
A vicious maintenance of having to
Remember umpteen profile details and
Password(s)
Rescuing ourselves, if I may, from the audaciously
Obnoxious raves and rants
Only because we have an opinion
And an account
For and about everything
Sheltering in the self-made proprietorship of a handle
Under the sun

A self-made proprietorship it is
For travelling today means partiality
To air-conditioned compartments
And vehicles
With a pair of plugs vacuumed in the earhole
Or, a screen the size of one’s palm
Its brightness compromised
Based on the keeper’s conveyance
The thumbs pirouetting across it, above all
Like a ballet dancer
Not meant for audience’s viewing, but for garnering
Privacy, pray from what
Remains the unanswered piece of the puzzle

Although self-proclaimed privacy
It is, no longer the kind I want to take charge of
By instigating unforced filters, appealing captions
Or, even maintaining a milled
Profile, with a near-perfect image
Diffused with wordy opinions and succinct hypocrisy

I am bored
Tired and drained
By it all

A draining spell it is
For I’d rather own a puppet show
That will allow me to operate
The good ol’ strings
Of my accord
Not to (dis)prove theories of presumptuous assumptions
By a émigré
But because
That is all there is to it

Oh, how I wish I can go back to those times
Waking up to the smell of decoction
Freshly brewed
The steam from the filter coquettishly melting
Into the nothingness of air
A croon from the tape recorder
Canvassing the morning’s backdrop
In hues and pastels
Of monochromes, grey scale and bit colours
A cassette fixated within
Wounding and unwinding its roll of film
One spool to the other
Discharging a melody
Palliative to the ear

 

Burnout
Source: Pixabay

 

Of Opinions & Indecisions, Fictions & Fables

I am not a person known for holding opinions. Because I do not have them in the first instance. This leads me to assume that I must be somewhat open-minded, for I often realise that I do not have viewpoints on a lot of doodahs. Like, what are my thoughts on the country’s current political scenario? Nothing. At what stage is someone qualified to call themselves a writer? I don’t know. When is someone’s time to make a public appearance with their performance? After preparation; lots of it. How do I react to people’s opinions about me? Barely heard them. When someone writes to the best of their abilities, why is it not okay to still refer themselves as writers? Erm…good question. What is my take on someone’s reservations about me? It isn’t until you mentioned this that I realised it exists. What do I think about my neighbour’s kid? Cute. How about their dog? He is adorable, but I am scared when he comes close. What are my thoughts about a person whom I have only met? What is there to think about it when we have only met? Would I meet them again? We’ll see. Can we go shopping? Why not? How do I feel about my bank balance? Should I? From subjects of conversations to current issues, from general knowledge to someone’s socioeconomic status, from movies to a media person’s lives, and from a person’s choice of action to the rationale behind settling for it fails to perturb me. Unless I am looking at one or more of the said points for charting the plot of a book. Such an impartial outlook is probably a reflection of the fact that none of these, except discussing things in general, interest me. If they are served on my plate, I will devour them without a second thought. However, I find there is not much I can contribute in such situations than belching a burp in the aftermath. There, I have digested your piece of conversation. I am likely to nod my head along, ‘okay’ the speaker’s facts and utterances, and add a pointer if I have one to offer.

That is all there is to it.

Beaded Colours
Source: Pixabay

As far as I can trace my days of getting taller, I have been an indifferent person. It is only my way of expressing this indifference that has altered over the years. Think, in the flow. Walk, in the flow. Talk, in the flow. Eat, in the flow. Listen to what my well-wishers have to say, but act per my flow. Smile, despite the flow. Laugh, in the flow. And be done with it. For there is no point brooding over something that’s attended to already. What is to be gained by thinking of instances, to the extent of scrutinising, analysing and finally opining on that matter? Instead, I find it easy to be indifferent to many things. And people. Including my own. If one were to uncover a layer underneath, differences with people arise when there is a discord between our thought-processes. At such times, I go about my business without caring to look over my shoulder thereby keeping the devil, aka my opinions, on the subject at bay. Anything that I have to say on the particular leitmotif is only going to irk the other. Considering the differences in our opinions. There are no connecting dots, after all, only a parallel line. The alternative side sticking to their logic and reasoning on the subject matter does not mean I need to jump the wall to their side to agree. Lest I land up tearing down my equation with them. To be honest, if it is a relationship that matters, it must have developed over seasons of unbearably warm afternoons and chilly mornings. And with time, you only tighten the knots. Unless, we are talking about a connection that is bound on a bridge of fragility, such that a single misunderstanding can lead to fallout. Is such a relationship even worthy of being called one?

I can only wonder.

What do you do when one is unable to accept the differences and make peace with it, to the point of being adamant and influencing you over and again in their line of ideas, while veiling under ‘I am only saying this for your good? You put your thumb(s) up, mutter ‘okay’, and hope that, in the ever-churning whirlpool of fresh incidents, they forget about this one. Or better, let go.

Keep Calm & Sip Your Drink
Keep calm & quench your thirst | Source: Pixabay

Everything materialistic defined as must-haves for one’s survival is prioritised by the survivor. It must be. Depending on their belief system, thought-process and chosen mode of lifestyle. An unavoidable ingredient often linked to the pursuit of happiness is wealth. It is elementary, no doubt, for food, water and shelter. However, it is a commodity, and can consequently, be refrained from being a priority to one and all. There rests an alternative way to live with bare essentials; the choice purely based on one’s preference. Those who want to pursue the moolah go for it, despite the cause and effects. For a few, it doesn’t top the charts. Because their lifestyle’s cookbook holds a different blend of ingredients, where a paper note is probably a condiment.

Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, as long as it makes sense to its owner. The underlining fact being, to each their own.

I have been facing heat from a fair share of people since the time I quit my well-remunerated job to pursue writing and singing full-time. When Pachai and I decided to jump into it, it was an informed step we took. We had estimated the by-products that were likely to generate in the process, of which we had two options. We either deal with the arising side-effects, or I go back and find a job that would once more churn me that sure-shot salary at the end of each month. I have figured, when you choose fine arts as your mode of living, it must not be done so with the sole motive of earning. Not in the beginning, at least. Because professions in the fine arts aren’t reputed for being money-churners. The banknotes are only a corollary medium of exchange that is bound to find its course in the process.

You pursue fine arts because you want to.

Screen Shot 2017-08-01 at 6.35.30 PM
What did you see first? | Source: The Internet

Interestingly, I have faced arguments from family and friends that I articulate my opinions in an abstracted and daydreamy attitude because I am an artist. Because I write. And, sing. That, my thought-process sounds breezy and beautiful, however, cannot be abided to because it is impractical. Here I am, reduced to thinking, why cannot an artist’s thought-process be as practical as that of those logical-minded ones? When finding a job to earn money is an efficient mode of living to pay off one’s bills and loans, why can’t living in a shelter, making enough to provide for three square meals a day, and clothing one’s body with fabrics that are neither tattered nor unclean be considered practical likewise? Does my thought-process come across that fantastic when I say money is not the frontal point in my survivor’s list? Am I giving away a delusional aura to the point of seeming deranged? Is my head for real in the clouds? Believing in the existence of angels squired with halos, wings and long robes?

When I can respect someone else’s adoption of causal effects, why can’t you mine? Why is it difficult to agree to disagree with my viewpoint, and continue going on about our relationship by tightening that clump? After all, it’s only one loop that we both, as two distinct individuals, differ upon.

Only time will tell
Source: Pixabay

Only time will tell.

Arohara

Tiruchendur, May 2012:

I was aware of our travel itinerary bearing a visit to you. However, I wasn’t prepared for the series of seamlessly accidental incidents that were to follow suite. Little did I know, that I was on my way to striking one of the most intense and honest chords with someone. You. As we found a comfortable parking spot near your abode, I trotted off with my friends to the entrance of your shrine. I remember passing on subtle signs of liking this boy from the group I was with then; you knew about it even before I toyed with the idea of ‘what next?’. But you held your quiet. I am not sure if you paved the way for him, but I do not recall receiving any benevolent signs from you back then. You stood sheltered under your rajagopuram, as beamy as always you have been in this sanctum in the aftermath of banishing that fateful asura in the conjoining sea. Your face was clad in wet ash in a coating so thick that your kohl-sketched eyes and lip-line were as vivid and discernible as the outlines of the pictures in a kid’s colouring book. Vibhuthi Alankaaram or Vibhuti Alankara, they told me. You stood there calm and unmoving, while your fans yelled your name, pervading the air with a numinous aura. Your smile failed to waver and needed no support in itself, for it was a finery capable of holding ground by itself. I felt drawn to you like an insect to pollen. My nape tingled, and I felt butterflies in my stomach. Till date, I cannot place my finger on the ‘why’. I felt attracted to you. I stood there one amongst the throng that was besieging you and drawing your attention towards them. I was no different. For, I hoped you had spotted me. I wanted you to look at me. I desired for you to remember me. I was unlikely to forget you; more so, your face. Ever. It was the first time I had felt captivated by a stationary idol. The air was different. The crowd’s callouts failed to bother me; they sounded distant and unconnected. Rather contradictory to my sentiments for you, I must say. The push from the priests to keep moving the queue did not annoy me for it only seemed natural. I could stay there admiring you all day and still not get enough of you. I could continue to stand and look at you without getting tired. Or bored. Your heartwarming smile, the lucid posture discharging an ambience of victory, and your acceptance of me as simply as the air does the breeze had had me arrested. My dreamy temper lasted until the boy whom I liked tapped my shoulder. It was time to leave. I fluttered out of my reverie thinking, what had just happened?

Tiruttani, September 2014:

A native insect had bitten me. My body had begun to itch. It failed to cease, giving way to crimson rashes seconds later. In under a couple of minutes, my lips had swollen to the size conjured in the aftermath of a bee’s sting. I was unable to speak for they felt thick, dry and extremely itchy. I felt unable to fold my hands or flex my fingers as my limbs and flesh had ballooned. I was unable to move, for my feet and toes stung, and my legs felt heavy. As if I were injected with elephantiasis without warning or ado. Tears dripped in a steady column across my puffy cheekbones soaking my feeble eyelashes. The boy I had told you of a year-and-a-half had now married me and was smearing the holy ash all over my limbs to stop my skin from burning after the constant itching. He asked me to close my eyes and think of you. He promised me that we would visit you in the abode that sprung to my mind at that moment, soon after I get well. I believed him and did as he told. Your ashen-faced grin silhouetted my reticent contours. When we visited you a month later, I realised that Vibhuthi Alankaaram is not an exclusivity reserved for your seaside abode and that your dressing and elaboration were transferable. Nonetheless, all that time I had held an unrealised desire to see you adorned in the embers of the holy ash, and you gave me what I had asked for. Even if, at another residence. Without premonitions. Or expectations. Who does that?

Swamimalai, September 2014:

It took me time to record the memories I had dotted with you over seasons. I enjoy(ed) visiting you, no doubts; however, the process of collecting my souvenirs with you was gradual. Every time we entered your shrines, I made a mental note to remember something – anything – significant that would help me memorise the way you are in that specific abode. For, you are different in each of your six homes. Your carvings vary, and distinctly. As if the sculptors had deliberately wanted to be careful while reflecting your vibes to the analogous tales of the particular abodes, without tampering. While each one of your six padai veedu is back linked to a mythological story, it was in this veedu you preached your father the meaning of a mystic monosyllable. You became his guru and asked him to sit down signifying his discipleship towards you – a demand the latter beckoned to. After all, a child’s mischief can warm the cockles of one’s heart. May be, this is why the sight of your face lustred in a golden paste of sandalwood with a sizeable circle of sindoor on your forehead imprinted in my memory. Chandanam Alankaaram or Chandan Alankara drew my attention to your fair-sized face you have in this veedu. After Vibhuthi Alankaaram had (un)knowingly begun to top my wish list every time I met you, little did I realise that Chandanam Alankaaram will follow the sequence. For, I secretly kept hoping for it in my subsequent visits.

Pazhamudircholai, December 2015:

A babble broke out in the queue. A group of people screamed and shoved their way inside the rajagopuram. As the line inched forward, I felt a push on my back. I tripped as the crowd that was the source of the din pushed its way past me. They did not give me a second look. Pachai asked me to ignore them and focus on the reason we were here. The sequence of people in the queue progressed, and I saw you. Settled with your two-thirds, one of them by each of your side. A look of peace manifested from your countenance, the solitude transferable. Your silent gaze had an acupuncture-like effect on me – piercing and calming at the same time. I forgot my anxiety and displeasure I was engulfed with seconds back. Like nothing had happened. The corresponding tale of concluding your quests in your five other padai veedu and choosing this mountain amidst a reserve forest for penultimate settlement couldn’t have borne a finer justification. As if to complement this untroubled aura, a circular mark in red pigment adorned your forehead, and your face was smothered in a velvety layer of sandalwood paste. Watching your fans grow emotional in your presence is your routine, I believe.

Tiruchendur, December 2015:

By now, I had almost by-hearted the cheerful beam you preserve in here. This time, however, I had the chance to admire you beneath and beyond your facial profile because you were ornamented from head to toe. Your head was bedecked in an ornately sequinned and patterned crown. An equally grand, if not more, and suave dhoti swathed your legs. Garlands of flowers, big and small, pink and white, yellow and green cloaked your torso in a manner that no less than complimented your upper and lower attiresRaja Alankaaram or Raja Alankara, they told me. Perhaps, it was a pearl from your palatial garb that convulsed as a teardrop on the brim of my lash. The first of my many open and unabashed sentiments in your midst. That feeling of karunai. Long live the grin!

Palani, January 2016:

You denied me utsavam tickets for that afternoon, although we had come in at the last minute. However, by now, I knew you enough to bear in you a blind faith. When you did not permit me to attend your purpose-built prayer rituals, I was angry for a whole minute. Then I argued that you must have a reason for your signalled inklings and that you will not disappoint me had it not been for a cause. You beckoned to my thought-process for, not only did you let me feast my eyes that day on you ornamented in Raja Alankaaram, but also you treated me to utsavam at my kula deivam (the deity my clan worships) the same evening. Could I have asked for more?

Pazhamudircholai, July 2017:

Two people engaged in a discussion in front, as I stood with my fingers intertwined, the palms of both hands turned inward resting on my thigh. One asked if you were decorated in Vibhuthi, and the other pointed to your crown and sparkling dhoti disputing the suggestion altogether, calling it Raja Alankaaram. While I had believed it to be the former, after the superiorly declaration, my mind became disputed. I was confused to the point of being in turmoil. Because Raja Alankaaram would have meant that my belief of seeing you in Vibhuthi Alankaaram was false. It would have meant that my wish in that trip would have been left unfulfilled. It was past dusk and the day was drawing to a close. So was the temple. The priests were rushing the crowd in the queue. Soon after, they closed the curtains for you had to be readied to sleep after the last worship for the day. We made our way to the exit and sat for a couple of minutes near the entrance, ready to leave. The security guard who mistook us for people waiting for the curtains to reopen urged us to reenter the shrine. Why must we see you from near the exit when we had a chance to do so from far closer, he reasoned. We obliged. The curtains opened as bells began to be rung and mantras chanted in similar timbres. One of the priests offered you a sequence of wick lamps soaked in ghee in repetitive circular motions. You stood in peace as you always have, clad in a plain white dhoti. Your head was devoid of the crown, and so was the rest of your body from any sequinned or patterned attire. All of it had been removed except the layer of ash and kohl-smeared eyes and lip-line. They remained as-is. My mind automatically unknotted itself from the conflicts it was strung with in the past half hour.

Thiruparankundram, July 2017:

By now, I had souvenirs from five of your other veedu but none, even in fragments, from here. I climbed the flight of steps leading up to the shrine hoping to catch a hint, a take away at least this time. Upon entering the sanctum, I got a chance to stand close to you; the priests let me be, for the crowd was minimal that day. Rows upon rows and columns upon columns of wick lamps drenched in sesame oil hung low from all sides, close to your face. Your eyes were open, your face devoid of any makeup or coating, and your lips curved upward an inch or so. The sculpture appeared a shade of military green in the lights. The seconds stretched into minutes, lapsing me into the world that was oblivious to calls and beckons from the crowd. I thought I saw water surfacing on your eye. A droplet the size of a pearl seemed to trace a fine line on your right cheek. Was it a carving sculpted to resemble a tear-stained cheek? Or, had a tiny cleft developed in the recent years? I thought I saw your eyeballs move in circles, creating illusions of mischief. You rolled your eyes like a child up to something naughty. They orbited to corners you commanded them to. It was an impishness that revealed a playful side of you. Apparently, the wick lamps were tricking me, conjuring illusions out of a delightful kaleidoscope. I had only hoped to strike a chord with something – anything – significant when I had entered. And I had oodles of it on my way out. Who does that?

*************************

You accepted me without premonitions and reservations when I stepped into your seaside abode five years ago. It was as if you had stamped your seal of fate when that boy I liked and I walked into your sanctum. As if there were no further questions to be asked and nothing left to be discussed. I am indebted to you for it. You let me demand from you whenever I wanted to see you in one of my three favourite alankaarams. You let me be angry with you when I thought you had failed me. Despite which, you have never judged me. You have taken it all in your stride and more so, you have answered each one of my indecisions in ways I understand.

A friend once suggested that Lord Muruga is my close friend, and so visiting you feels like visiting friends. I think it is true. The journey of getting to know you has been unhurried, nonetheless a fulfilling one. Have I ever confessed to you, that you made it this easy for me only because you took to me without any questions? I walked into your durbar, and you claimed your ownership over me. I became yours. Just like that. Which, in turn, and over time, translated into affection. Fondness. Homage.

Your sight invokes tears in my eyes today. I let them flow without restraint.

You have given me Pachai. I could not ask for more. You have rewarded my wish of seeing you in my all-time favourite silhouettes of sandalwood paste, wet ash and the ruler’s crown every time I have considered it. I should not ask for more. It took me thirty years to realise that you have been alongside me all this while in the form of two fathers – Subramaniam Kumar and Sivakumar. I need not ask for more.

Arohara.

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Inked

Why I do What I do?

A few could have anticipated the prominence, dominance and control of the internet in our lives today. Fundamental reasons have always underlined human desires. The concept of nights introduced artificial lighting. The need for entertainment presented the radio. The lack of visual leisure brought on the television. Portability introduced Walkman. Likewise, the need for internet too began with the quintessential lure of communicating faster with near-and-dear ones. Emails paved the way to shed the fear of the unknown by attempting to embrace globalisation. And chat rooms followed suit. The internet also introduced accessibility at our fingertips incorporating in us another lesson that achieving anything is possible with the right set of mind (in this case, keywords). At first, the desired results were posters of our favourite media persons. Today, it is information. When it comes to the human race, everything materialistic begins with a basic want, evolving into a cannot-do-without need. Sometimes, we lose sight in the process, much so that we no longer identify the point we are heading to or why we are doing so despite setting a goal, maintaining a calendar and rain checking on the milestones that are at times, abetted with a carrot-and-stick approach.

Although a pioneer, the internet had a purpose behind crawling into our already confused sentience. Search engines, keywords and social media were stages of jargons that knotted our lifestyles with a psychological obligation; yet, they were all done so with a reason – to regale our constitutional birthright of the freedom of speech. Profit-sucking enterprises saw a booming venture of providing the means through swifter shores, thereby introducing to us quicker modes ‘to enable’ faster communication. Another reason discovered here, the result of which was the nimble modems. Thereby, wireless internet. If we hadn’t purchased a Wi-fi connection by the early millennial years, the society might have shunned us out for good. And today, the Wi-fi is as basic a need as electricity, plumbing lines, kitchen and food; a bare essential in a house.

Must we tip our hats to those who envisioned wooing people to fall into the pit of live ‘faster’ and ‘smarter’? Or, was it our need to keep up with that friend in school who had the internet while we did not? The mindful coercion of societal and social obligations?

Doodle Bull
Via: Doodle Happy

Over time, the global computer network has curated counselling, guidances, therapies, personality tests, doctor consultations and what not, all through a stream of web pages. Had food and air been served to us by some online means, we could live off virtually. The spell is fulsome, browsing page after page, devouring their contents, accumulating the data, and yet it doesn’t feel enough. No amount of knowledge is. It’s bamboozling. Blogs, discussion centres, dedicated forums, research materials, reports, psychological backups, health expert analysis and bam! a keyword later, it’s there. As if this weren’t enough, articles talking about the behavioural traits that define one as a genius, an introvert/ambivert/extrovert, a bibliophile, or an alcoholic add to the swagger. Memes of particular lifestyle(s) we’re so innately proud of, flaunt the headlines. It is nothing short of ‘cool’ to belong to one generation. We consider it hip that we are the sensibly careful, yet the vivaciously don’t-care kinds. We have a view on marriages, kids, feminism and gender neutrality. We fight for the cause of every individual’s individuality through a string of words on an online profile. For every person privy to the internet has access to a self-fabricated account. A space that allows them to concoct whatever they like and however they do. So many people have so much to say, sometimes clipped with pictures, that there is only a chunk rallying out in the heat. The means of fighting the freedom movement have evidently evolved.

Is the internet still serving its means of ‘living faster and smarter’? Or, am I missing something here?

hotline-1331313_960_720
Via: Pixabay

Tips, courses, workshops and everything under the sun is offered online these days. With subgenres. For instance, a writing workshop explores creative writing, literary writing, book writing, report writing, categorical writing, short story writing – the list goes on. A couple of days ago, I came across a few articles on WordPress Discover, one of which talked about why they will never let go of their blog space on WordPress. Another highlighted the five discoveries they had made in their journey of transitioning fromView atop Arc de Triomphe, Paris writing blogs to a book. And I am sitting here thinking when I should time my next cup of coffee so that I refrain from going back staring into space. Let alone having a clue about why I am doing what I am doing.

The focus people own, the clarity they bring to their thought-process, and their presence of mind to make notes of the means they follow only to give them away to those who are unsure of treading on such paths is admirable. I also feel that planning and organising a mission to Mars is more methodical. Because after the internet, the social media, the online reading, and the internal processing at the end of it, I am lost. So lost, that I cannot comprehend the whys for what I do. For instance, I do not know the reason I write. Because I have a story to tell? I do not know why I want the tag of an author someday. Because I want to see my name published in my creation? I have no reason to sing. Except, I derive a peace of mind? I do not know why I am inclined towards creative vocations. They lure me?

Do these justifications sound sane? More so, are they acceptable?

I do not know if widening my horizons, meeting new people and finding like-mindedness around are reasons for me to choose an imaginative profession. For, they are the by-products of the process. But I do know that this is all I have, to cling onto. And that, this is what I want. To write and sing. I have no other go than to practice the two crafts. And because I have them, I do not want to let them go. If I do not exercise either daily, my day is incomplete. My sense of purpose hangs in the air to the point of questioning my existence. It’s hard to widen my horizons beyond getting the technicalities in a specific song, or the lyrical aesthetics of a write-up right. So, how about, I find it complicated to focus on anything beyond the details of the craft? At any moment? How about, I sing because I like it? How about, I write because I enjoy the process?

To be honest, I have no other explanation. Be that as it may, articulation isn’t my forte. Especially when it’s about the fine arts.

Source: Pixabay
Via: Pixabay

The internet either talks about the paradigm shifts of enterprises that are changing the industrial landscape or of discovering reasons for/of doing something. The ten traits, the five habits, the three dos, the thirty don’ts, and the nine must-haves give me a reason to move on. Because I am unsure of the conviction, each article brings. Maybe, I belong in the wrong era. For, I do not know after the internet, how much of it all holds good? Where must I draw the line to read no further, to research no further, and to believe no further?

Eh, what do I know? For, I am only a writer – and another hypocrite humanironically using the internet to slate my views across.

The Eiffel Tower, Paris
The Eiffel Tower, Paris