I haven’t written in quite some time now.
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.
And it will linger.
I sometimes think my life lacks purpose, scratch that, this thought frequents my mind more than sometimes. This thought makes me; I am it. That would be a better description of my mind. I made this blog in 2009, by the name of Random Thoughts. I was more of myself back then. My thoughts were random yes, but they were mine. I was willing to express myself. I was not afraid to be me. To be who I was. What I was essentially made of. I shared my thoughts without inhibition. And I was fine. I was a happy person back then. Not afraid of being perceived as an idiot who didn’t know/cared much about the “popular” opinion.
It’s been six years since I wrote my first post on this blog. But I didn’t know what to do with a blog then, I was just happy to have found an outlet. I still don’t know what to do with it today. But I write more reluctantly, my thoughts are more random, my crises more severe. My life seems purposeless to me because of the high standards I set for myself initially. When I always knew in the heart of my hearts, I wasn’t cut out to become the person I always wanted to be.
I’ve been looking in the wrong direction all my life and now I feel lost. I don’t feel I can go back and to go further in the same direction would devastate me even more. What to do then? Just let it be. Stay where I am and expect it all to get better miraculously. I have ample reason to believe that this crises of mine will become severe with age. And as I heard somewhere, a crises at 55 is much worse than a crises at 35.
I changed the name of this blog because I wanted to be absolutely invisible. I wanted to become invisible on Google. I wanted to delete the memory of ‘random thoughts’ from my mind. But I guess in this day and age, there is no escape from who you are or who you have become. Does that mean then, that you cannot start afresh? That you keep going ahead in the same direction and forget about where you’d want to go instead? Does that mean you’re stuck where you are and there is no hope left for you?
These are my random thoughts. And they will continue. With a new name.