Arbit (insightful, though)

Twenty five hours is a long time indeed.

It was some three days ago that I earned lavish praise from my cousin and friends. The fuss was about something I happened to write on my blog. Now, I ventured into this blog-o-sphere some fifteen months ago and it is only after 43 posts that I have realized the beauty of a writing experience. The average writing duration nears three posts a month, and sadly, this is the weighted average of all the writings over all this time. And to be very honest, the average marks I give myself in all these posts is somewhere around 65 on the scale of. Surprising, right, that someone like me, a branded narcissist, awards himself such laurels. OK, narcissism, but the decision is to enter the real world, to step out of the world of make-belief, and to see for myself, what weight do my words actually carry. Its time to realize that if people say I write well, I respect their good-will and respond to the same in an honorable and respectable way. Fifteen months is a long time and over the internet space, I have been successful in grafting someone unknown to me into my friend list through this blog. What is good about this experience is my realization that if I own a gift, I need to be special enough, and more than that, worthy enough to contain that gift; if I possess some quality I should have the perseverance and the character to expose the same. This is nothing negative, but a stark cognizance, after the experience of something I feel robbed of.

The whole point of this drama cools down to the fact that Rome was not built in a day (deviation, actually). I will put forth a question: You have been living with a certain quality all these days. You are not unaware of your possession. In fact this is one thing you pride in. But mind you there are limitations on this. You have done nothing to promote this skill, you have done nothing to develop it and you do nothing to polish it. It comes just as it came the first time. Now, the condition is that the ability you possess is basically something in the positive domains of an adjective. I mean, that this quality of yours is not comparative. If you are good at something of this kind, it simply means that you are good in the trade. There may well be many who are better than you, there may even be many who are considered to the best in the trade. My argument is that if you are good at drawing or may be sketching, it definitely means you are good. There may be obvious space for improvement but that does not spoil your party. Over the time, people have relished in your skill, and you have basked in the glory of the same. Now comes my point. You do not have to prove yourself in your own backyard that this is your space; you need not crib about that fact that the neighbor own a bigger space than yours or a better maintained one. Neither can you let it go and allow it to turn into a closet. Possession of something brings delight and the loss of a cherished brings an equal amount and even more of sorrow. Now, You push for it too hard, failing to realize that the skill is unlimited quality wise,and not quantity wise. I mean, you can't see the boundary and cross it. One day, you realize that it was not very enjoyable. People think may be it was not your day. But then you sustain this feeling and before long, you realize may be your backyard is turning into your closet, may be you are losing the skill. How do you feel? Don't post comments saying you feel bad.

Coming back to my blog and my writing, I first wrote something on my own in third standard when I was unable to memorize the essay the tutor had gave us. Since then, and at the encouragement of the teacher, i started writing things on my own. My first account was "Being alone one night" in fourth standard. It was appreciated beyond my expectations. My memory then jumps to eighth standard, when I was chosen to represent my house in the essay writing competition. All before that was inconsequential because I thought the system behind awarding prizes was a flawed one, since the ones who won were the ones who always won (pun intended). I failed at that level and I can't find a reason why. Then came standard ninth, and with it the three pillars of English literature : prose, poetry and drama; then came Sister Lincy and all the principals and the best teachers. All that time was quite a success, both literature and language wise. I happen to come across this workbook and then the first piece of grandiloquent literature at a stretch. I am overawed. I begin resorting to this book for my answers and for my heightened status as the "one who uses bombastic words". I developed a penchant for words and started working on my vocabulary. I started noting news words I used to encounter in the print. I started to search for meanings of words I recollected anywhere and anytime of the day. This was a big boost to my image and confidence as well. I began thinking I could write well. But, come exams and I realized that a writing is not just about weaving a cobweb of words around the reader, but basically about content. I began searching for tips to improve my writing skills. I next get a book with some good tips and certain examples, and I begin using them frequently. I still remember those expressions. Another landmark was my farewell speech as the head boy of the school. I was supposed to deliver a speech and it was expected to the best one by my teachers and friends alike. The eve of the farewell day, I wrote the first lines and my cousin and my sister blasted it off like anything. I was devastated. I could see nothing ahead, I could think of no refuge, i couldn't recollect any book to resort to for help. My wits failed me. Then they came to my rescue. The idea was that they would be dictating the contents and I would be beautifying it with my vocab. The speech, indeed, turned out to be the best, said all.

Kota was not much of a sport, except that it helped me secure a rank in the coveted JEE. The lone incident I remember was the first day when we were asked to write on our ambitions and the only sentence I had written was enough to keep me popular for those two years (not because of the content but the language). The next stage was the October of 2007 when I was asked to write something the hostel magazine that was supposed to be published. I wrote something very different, I wrote on love. I questioned the popular beliefs about love and supported my writing with many quotations. It was again praised. One low of this writing was my sister's comment on the content's originality. Anyway, people said I had matured as a writer. Then, comes a friend of mine into picture who projects his blog. I feel some "spardha" and try to compete for praise. This becomes the start of this blog and then its 43 posts now. Most of them have come in very short intervals, one after the other. Some took me half a month to write, some were forced within periods of 2 hours. Some earned me much applause, a few were debated over. The name has been a subject of curiosity for all the first timers. I don't know if I have been successful, but the idea was to write something that was esoteric and something that required a Promethean daring and effort to be written. I invited many friends to be the co-authors, but disheartened at their lack of interest, i set out alone. I questioned love, writing both my views and the popular beliefs, I questioned blind faith in GOD and the identity of Lucifer. I wrote sonnets about the prevalent paradigms. I tried not to write the very vulgar (read common) ideas like desperation and stuff. I wrote happy things.

But monotony threatened my blog. I got stuck in the love thing. Every other stuff was the same kind. I was getting lost in the desire of earning praise. I was pushing myself too hard for praise, I was churning out articles at a very high frequency, and to add to my woes, they were all forced when some acquaintance wrote something. A false sense of insecurity had crept into my heart, and all I thought was extracting praise. My readers started losing interest due to the increasing monotony and the deteriorating content. I started losing satisfaction. They said that I used too much of mindless decoration of my language, they said everything I wrote smelt the same, they said their friends did not want to read my blog, my friends said the same. I resorted to music and learned to play a guitar. What more, I thought i cud write music and tried my hand at writing lyrics for my songs. The effort clearly did not pay. I was forcing myself into something I was not. I was disheartened to the extent that I thought I would stop writing. I did so. I deleted my blog for a while.

Then came the realization of the aforementioned. I started understanding things and the relevance of literature. I became conscious of the role of literature. I tried to stop myself from forcing anything. I transformed, from trying to being esoteric, I wanted to be as reachable and accessible as I could. I wrote about everyday stuff. I wrote simplicity, I wrote about simplicity. I wrote about my dreams, my feelings, my thoughts of idleness and my experiences. I was no longer concerned about others' opinions. I had realized my true potential. But man can't always remain free from vice. The praise demon still haunts me. My appetite for laurels seems to be insatiable as I forced my thoughts into my cousin's and proposed a combined effort at writing an imaginary love story. The idea garnered praise, I was relieved. We have written seven of those episodes and all have been received with increasing acclaim. The one weak link was again mine, when I tried to force something out of my domains and the result was termed "grotesque".

Its been 25 hrs since I last heard anything about my writing skill or my blog and I am turning impatient. I badly want compliments. Three days since I posted something new and more than twenty-five hours since my blog has been talked of. I am desperate to write something just for the sake of posting it, just for the buzz around it. I was, yet again, forced into forcing myself into writing the eighth episode but I stopped. I have weathered enough to be aware of the guiles of this vice. I am trying to make a virtue out of it. I am trying to develop the character needed for the possession and the containing of something called "LITERARY PROWESS".

But then, literature rolls on and so rolls on the legend of the ESOTERICPROMETHEAN.