"We don't read & write poetry because it's cute. We read & write poetry because we are members of the human race   And the human race is filled with passion."

                                                                                                

Credits to the owner.

So, I lapsed. For over seven months, I found myself oscillating between sharing and secrecy. What's a blog entry supposed to be? "My thoughts", was the first answer that came to my head. Naturally, the internet seemed to disagree, and while going through a lot of other blogs, I wondered if I was good enough.

After a long list of private diary entries, poems, rants and mental dystopia (as I'd like to call it), I realized the real question is "Good enough for what, good enough for whom?"

So, here's a poem I wrote on September 28th, to Neil Perry,one of the lead characters in the movie "Dead Poets Society".

To those who haven't had the chance to watch the movie, please do. It might just change your world.

 To Neil,

It wasn't as though the world was against you,
It wasn't that the chains were choking you,

You were breath-taking on the dais,
It made you look like the mightiest person.

Your ideas surround me,
As each day passes.

The very plethora
Of your being.

In the end,
Here is a note.

That someday
I hope will reach you.

For you are beautiful 
As you are.

For you are perfect
As you are.

Perhaps the past tense 
is best suited here.
And queer as it seems,
the lines in this poem don't 
even follow a scheme.

Each syllable fails to make sense.
"What is a poem, then?"
The critics will argue.
"This is a jibe to great poets"
They will say.

But what is poetry, Neil?
if it is not a reflection of me?

What will this poem mean,
if I do not make it out to you?

We count the words each day.
We judge by voice, diction and what not.

We fail to follow our dreams,
simply because we conform.

You didn't conform, Neil.
And you came at a time where I 
I, might have buckled in.

Todd isn't doing so well,
Neither were Charlie or Knox.

 Where there were a hundred,
 I saw you.
 I can speak to you.

And where you are now,
You can truly be you. 

Thank you all once again, for visiting my page.

MUST WRITE.MUST WRITE.MUST WRITE.

Writing should be a ritual, a famous author says. Otherwise, you can't live to tell finish your tale.

Oh, who am I kidding? No author said that. That's my limiting belief., right there.
My impending, yet delusional belief that I have another fifty years or so, to live. Fifty years is enough to write a write a 300 page novel right?

"I wouldn't be lying if I said I couldn't relate."
Credits to the owner

Meet my worst enemy, he's called Procrastination, and he's also my best friend. Here I am, with a dozen ideas blurring through my head as I take the bus to college, when I'm writing an exam and even when I'm the world's most jobless person.

Yet I don't pick up a sheet of paper and a pen, actually write them down. Here's the conversation that goes on, between me and well, um, me.

"Oh my god, what if he did that, and the story starts with a young girl who sells flowers everyday?Or, ohhhhhh, the story could have a minimalist poster theme! I should start writing it."

THE OTHER ME:

"Yeaaaaaaaaaaaahh, the sofa seems pretty comfy right now, and what if , when you get back with the pen and paper, the cushions move ahead? Maybe, you should have a concrete theme before you start writing. Oh, Oh, I have a better one. You should read more before you ACTUALLY start writing."

(But wait, here's the best one)

"The mood doesn't seem right, I think you need to wait for the right setting,so that the story will come to you."

-----------------------------------------End of Conversation----------------------------------------------

So, as you might have guessed, I'm having a small problem. Regardless, I thought I'd move my behind and atleast rant on something than lying on my bed, sulking about how my story hasn't "come" to me yet.

(Sometimes, I want to slap myself, honestly.)

So, I went on the best thing ever invented, and key-ed in my search, and I got this book :The Five-Minute Writer by Margaret Geraghty, and it has successfully helped me write, three days in a row.

The book in itself is conversational and has a lot of quirky exercises which aren't too uptight and clichéd.

For instance, the first exercise asks you to write about a ritual, anything that you follow strictly, in your daily life and the author explains the exercise in less than a hundred words.However, the chapter in itself is around 8 pages long, and oozes just the right amount of inspiration to get those gears going.

Here was my first piece on "Rituals":

The passage to a perfect day

It’s the usual groaning every morning for me, when I feel the harsh streaks of sunlight interrupt the surreal scene where I’m embraced by a handsome man. Perfect timing, right?

Once my faced is laced with the blinding light, it’s bye-bye to bliss. Grudgingly, I wake up to madness, where there is chaos, yelling and cat fights (literally). There’s one solution to this, something that has always been with me, something that I can never get rid of, even if I’m late to college or an appointment by an hour.

Waking up to my earphones and my phone next to me, I wake up deciding what song to listen to. Slipping my earphones in, I continue to do everything else- brushing my teeth, grabbing a cup of coffee, and even during exams, studying comes after music.

I like the escape, the ethereal scenes that run by my eyes, which beautifully accompanies the music that revolves inside me. My day starts with revelations about people, things, concepts and maybe even the world. Music and words are the answer, and this gets me through the day. Every day.

                                                           ------------------------------------

Now, before you walk away,there's reason to this rant. Every time I meet someone who loves to write, something inside me catches flame.It dawns on me that I don't necessarily write all the time. Does that mean I don't truly love to write? That I can't be a good author?

But I love the way words speak when actions can't. It mesmerizes me how in a few hours I can be a protagonist, share their fears and even have the same nightmares they have. It fascinates me how I can be there, and back, and how I complete lose sense and meaning to my life when I close the hard-bound cover.

Words move me,wait. Let me rephrase that- Stories move me and I can't exactly explain how that makes me feel. 

I'll leave with this,though and one inspiring man said this : " If my goal is way up there, and I dance for atleast 10,000 hours, I'll reach the bottom of the mountain."

And this is just the start.

Inspiration, they say is like a storm, it can strike you anytime.

And, from a person who hasn't seen an ounce of what might just be the "I" of inspiration, I started being complacent.

Days went by, and before I knew,it it was a year already, and still no inspiration.

Maybe it was because I was looking to hard, but who am I kidding, I hardly did anything more than eating, sleeping and watching videos.

K-pop videos, to be more specific, and what was worse was the ultimate sense of hopelessness where I looked at those talented male idols and even decided that I might just go to Korea, and work for one of those ginormous entertainment companies.Well, it still doesn't seem like a bad job, except that I'd have to get knocked on the head, since I would probably just fall down drunk somewhere, ten years later after having a (or probably more) mental breakdown(s).

I really need to stop rambling.

On a really busy Tuesday night, my teacher called me to tell me about this Scottish exchange program for Journalism students under or who are 18.We had to write a piece on "Who is your inspiration?", and then submit it, following which two students from all over the country will be taken to Scotland for a Journalism Training Workshop.And the deadline was on Wednesday, at 10 AM.

First thought in my head?

"I don't even like Journalism. But, it's Europe, and it's for two weeks. I'll take it."

I came back home, and sat in front of a newly-opened word document with these words on top:

WHO MAKES ME STRIVE TO ACHIEVE?

It isn't exaggeration when I say I was sitting mum and blank for almost an hour, swirling the crevices in my brain, looking for one person that was my role-model or motivated me.

Maybe you realize that your dreams are just yours.
Courtesy: picturequotes.com

Now, this isn't me saying my parents, family and friends are horrible,not at all, they're amazing (And if you're reading this, good for me.). There have been dozens of celebrities I've drooled over, fantasized about and also, literally, dreamed of marrying, but that's not the point.If I took an average from this list, the selection committee would probably walk away because of how superficial I am, and so my next guess was authors and characters from books.Not that I don't have favorite characters, but Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham aren't really "Inspiration'.

I thought of my favorite authors, entrepreneurs, singers and finally gave up, I couldn't find one person that I could confidently point at and say "You,Right there, I'm doing this because of you".

And that's when it all made sense.I shouldn't need that,A person I constantly look upto and say "Why?How?What?" and lead my life like that.I can't be another person, I can appreciate them, congratulate them and even love them, but I just can't draw a parallel.There are too many things I want to see, and do, and be, and it's just not in one person or thing.

And I realized that was kind of, denial, maybe?

And this sort of haunted me the next few days, and I didn't turn the essay in.I didn't have anything to write about, and what's writing but a reflection of your belief atleast in part?

I asked around, looked around and a lot of people have role-models, and most of them are actually set on becoming like them.

That made me ask if people looked onto role models to become something they dream of?That's it, right there.

The word Dream.

So what does not having a role-model mean?No dreams?Nothing to look forward to?Or is it, that no one's moved me that much, and does this make me crabby and self-absorbed?

Or is it, that you don't need one for people to relate to what you see, believe and want to do?

Resurrection

It was dreary, the  last couple of months.I couldn't focus, or write or even know who I am anymore.
I know, this sounds extremely dramatic and honestly, it was.I thought I'd lost sense of who I was, after being around for 18 years.
I went to college late everyday, not by ten or fifteen minutes, it was often after three classes.And the killing part was that I got full-day attendance.
It was a comfortable place to be in, the fact that I could stay up all night , watching TV shows and thinking and reading about a horizon of things.
And nothing of consequence, really.
Work slipped, and I didn't feel motivated anymore.Forget motivation, I didn't even feel like waking up anymore, and I'm probably like a rabbit on drugs in the morning.
So, in a nut-shell, I was ready to plunge into the pool of a lot of people having "the phase" of deep disinterest and all I did was ramble and complain about how my life should have been.

The last three days, I've had a wake-up call.
An extremely great one at that, like a five-year old kid throwing ice-cream on your face.

All that I can say, is that: 
                                          I'm back,and I'm writing for good.

The next post will be up later today, and I feel alive already.