Saturday, March 15, 2008

Discovering Used Things...

Of late I've been doing a lot of writing, but unfortunately I can't bring them out here, which might explain rather less frequent set of posts here (but at least they are not just a mere passer-by hyperlink collection set to some other wisdom)...Anyways on a serious note, I feel Writing is a process of silent evolution, or any field of Art IS in fact the same for that matter...much like the streams of an undying river are in a constant effort to weather out the rocks, into unfailingly smooth pebbles...

This is a small piece I've written about someone on some life experiences. Its on writing, but written in first person with his bit of teenager-like brashness, so bear for the clichéd language :)

"Some creative accidents happen for the good in life, for as they dug out few hidden talent of ours, we are left in that delicate balance zone of whimsy and comfort. And when they are accompanied by a usual transition from despising something to loving it by heart - it’s no less than some sort of a religious experience.

On some bright day during college, I fortunately did meet this kind of accident, when some helpless friends of mine forced me to do something that I always assumed I wouldn’t do until I was tortured for the same - "intentionally" writing a creative piece - for the college magazine in this case. I mean, for whenever I was asked to complete an essay or answer a lengthy literature question, I used to treat it like fuzzy ugly stupid thing: “Oh! One Last Time...”, and I never took writing seriously - or what we call as putting the heart out into doing something worthwhile, with a robotic will. It had always been a big sticking pain for me - and I unfailingly dreaded it every time.

And so this time too, I felt a big mountain on my shoulders. I decided that scripting a poem would be easier, but again feared that I would bungle it out as some hogwash set of words. I doubted it’ll turn out as another cookie-cutter set of lines - like those we have in cliché-laden nursery rhymes. So I shifted to writing an article instead.

However I always had an innocent sense of feeling that every piece of art is normally driven by some inspiration, like some magical rainmaker stands up there to shake things up for you. And so I started out looking for some flashes of motivation - and they are never far by if we set out for them - just lurking behind into shadows of our otherwise entangled mind! And when it comes, it feels as relishing as first tinge of taste of a chocolate candy just propped in. I was all charged up with my newly discovered sense of intuition and then words just flowed in, metaphors kept tumbling around, as I scripted my first piece of "Own" writing...on the interesting analogy of one of my subject in the coursework to the mundane world, which was much appreciated by others – I was quite sure of that. I realized that the nature around has ample of inspiration for all of the souls it nurtures..."

Writing since then has been a second life for him. As it comes out, it has helped him rip off that “blinding flash of the obvious” of the used-to monotones of our grown up vision, and now he tends to experience all things around with an ever-searching eye of a child, driven by that ‘chocolate-box’ passion, looking out to fill up his rekindled trove in every little way...and he see a different world then, as I can make that out looking into him. Isn't writing beautifully mysterious? I think it is supposed to be mysterious, but not complex - as is often horribly interpreted, thanks to the made-up complexity of made-up esoteric writing, that leaves nothing but some sharp admonitions of those forgetful and fuzzy dark letters that patronizingly whooshes out past our mental ear.

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