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It has been a while since I have written and I can almost hear the creaky rust in my fingers. There are too many people who know about my blog now, people who know me and can affect me and my loved ones lives directly. Each time I think of this, the voice in my head that wants to come out gets a little more muffled. It doesn’t make any sense, I write to be read but I don’t want these people to know that I wrote it or to form an opinion about the people I write about or to start a conversation with me about this. Even my mother, read a piece I thought I had very cleverly labelled as ‘fiction’, but she is my mother and she knows the difference between fact and fiction and this piece kept her up for two nights until she finally decided to talk to me. She cried and apologised for her role in the incident or her lack of it. I did not want an apology, I had forgiven her way before that. I wrote the piece to cope with it, to make sense of it, to release it from the throes of my mind into this white blinking screen thinking that once it takes on a definite form in black and white it will lose it ghostly air and stop haunting me. This has always worked for me, making sense of the chaos of the world through words, finding patterns and also imagining them where there have been none. But this helps because it is unadulterated by what other people think of the incident, the people in the incident or even about the way I choose to express it. It works because I do this alone. Writing is my safe haven, the place I need to go to in darkness and in strength, to find and to lose and then lick my wounds, to create new parts of myself and to destroy the old.
In spite of my various attempts at order and schedule, writing has always been something that comes at its own will and like a stubborn child refuses to cooperate when its on a clock. Now I am beginning to negotiate with it but she still has the upper hand and I have a vague feeling that she always will. The urge to write will always come to me when I do not have the time, means or space to flesh it out completely or it will teasingly evade me when I sit with hours to spare and a word count goal to accomplish. It’s a wave I am still learning to ride and the last month or so has just blitzed past without anything more than a few mundane journal entries. She has roared and foamed and been as enticing as she could, but I have simply remained at the shore blatantly procrastinating, as if, as if I didn’t know that when I get around to it this particular wave will be gone. There will be more I am sure, but this one will be gone and I will never know where she could have led me.
Here is the part where I swear to myself that I will write more and post more and find Cthulhu. But sadly words don’t work for me that way, instead I am thinking of all the time that has passed since my last post and all the questions I have had since.
I am staring at the screen for a few minutes and I remember the last thing I stared at for so long, so blankly. It was a present I received a few days ago, a set of four unlinked strings that were in some complex and mysterious way to come together to form a necklace. This wasn’t a gift, it was a puzzle and who doesn’t love a good puzzle every now and then. I untangled those four strings, touching its metal and plastic beads and baffled by the lack of a logical beginning or ending or a broken link that explains everything. I ask anyone who agrees to help piece this puzzle for me, lesser and lesser because I want to wear it and more because I realise this too is now adding on to my large enough pile of unanswered questions. I watch as each person approaches it with a different strategy and I watch each of them give up or fail. In my fingers, the strings feel cool and unaffected by the confusion they are causing, they don’t seem to mind being incoherent. When I am alone I hold them up and make them dance and though I still don’t know how to wear them without risking them slipping off me or knotting them around my neck in a most unaesthetic manner at least I can hold them and dangle them and admire its strange unknowable beauty. This is not enough of course. I realise that as I try to braid it into semblance (it doesn’t work) but for now I think, for now this will do.
There are some questions that stand before us rather grotesquely, demanding that we answer them as soon as we can, questions about boundaries and trade offs and about our choices and the price one would pay to follow our urges even when they lead into the dark woods. And then there are others, the simpler ones, the ones whose answers we chase knowing that they wont affect us in any profound way but the chasing of which makes us forget, for sometime at least, the other more pressing questions.