This blog, as a reflection (however shoddy) of its creator, is mostly about her, people around her, things that she's passionate about or not for that matter; among other things.
This is where she practices her writing.
And every time I need to answer that cruel question, “what do you do”, I feel like dying.
I don’t know what to say anymore.
I do not write. How can I call myself a writer?
All I do is sit in front of the screen, scroll a bit, and then retire to bed hoping for a better day.
I may like to revel in the romanticism associated with being a writer.
Truth is, I am a sham. I am not a writer. Or I would’ve found time for it.
You don’t need to make time for a lover.
A lover has your time, and you know it.
You cannot not make time for your lover.
Or he is not one.
A writer writes because she cannot not write.
Because she is in love with the act of writing. Because the very thought of not writing one day is enough for her to stop breathing.
Because to go on without your lover wouldn’t make sense, would it.
No. I am not in love. For had I been in love I wouldn’t have been forced to write this piece of crap that I am at the moment.
I am a crappy writer and I know it.
I am a fake. I am a sham. I call myself a writer. But I am anything but. I am anything but.
I have always been afraid, afraid of being myself.
Afraid of being called a woman.
Weak. Indecisive. Meek.
Afraid to be associated with women.
Always felt this deep-founded desire to prove something to the world- to men.
That I could do whatever a man could..
And so. Just like that.
I stopped being myself.
I pushed myself so far down that it became almost impossible for me to lift myself up again.
In trying not to be who I was, I became who I never wanted to be.
I became weak. Meek and a failure.
I became what I detested the most.
Only because I didn’t want to become who I was.
And I am still trying.
Even after all this, all this fear and doubt and failure and rejection.
Oh but if I’ve learnt anything, it is this.
This fear of mine is not unfounded.
And it is not because of you.
It is because of this absurdity.
That one word to end the meanings of all words; words that do not stand a chance in front of the façade this one word entails. Every truth, all ingenuity, all graciousness is useless when faced with the intricate web of all the shiny mendacities this word so effortlessly weaves.
Such is the cruelty of this one word. Such is the power of it upon the lives of people all around us. Such is its significance for us. Ingenuity is a lost attribute now— or as far as I can perceive (and my perception is just that; perception). It is gone, buried and done away with. No one wants anything to do with it anymore. Why bother listening to the heart when I can follow the herd. Why bother being who I am when I can be someone else. Why be myself when I can be a third rate replica of someone more prosperous/beautiful/thinner/popular out there.
This world has traditionally been easier on the normal (read: ordinary) than the different. Because being different is often tantamount to being a failure; and failure is looked down upon. Failure is a thing to be avoided at all costs. It tends to have the worst of all meanings and it doesn’t matter if you think contrarily. Your opinion simply doesn’t matter. Period. Failures shouldn’t have opinions, because how can they? If the world doesn’t recognize me, how sacrilegious it is of me to acknowledge myself! How dare I think more of myself than what ‘they’ think of me!
I find myself surrounded by pretense. Those who effortlessly adapt to this philosophy, find that they’re better off in this world. Though whether or not it’s happiness that they experience or merely the satisfaction of conformity, I can’t say.
Eventually I will succumb to the pressures of conformity as well.
It is inevitable.
The pressures are too forceful. It is very persuasive. It has survived for centuries.
Or maybe I won’t and hence will just get old… very cranky and very unhappy.
It is all just a matter of time.
But time has never really been on my side.
And I walk alone.