I am trying to understand the depth of my dependence on my blog. For some reason today (poetic justice, retribution for past sins?), the Internet is not allowing me to sign in to blogger, and I seem to be taking it for granted that I cannot write today. What a ridiculous idea.
Which brings me back to the question of why I write. Have I turned into a publicity-seeking maverick who has lost all sense of writing for satisfaction, of using words as a palliative to dreary nights and early mornings, as an expression of the highest moments of a still uninitiated, unaccustomed life? Words are pure joy, they evoke a pleasure that is almost sensual, feel them come from deep within, without a second thought, and then find yourself fumbling for that correct word that evades you most annoyingly, you’ll know what I mean.
I know, for all my ranting and self-chastising, I am going to put this up on my blog. So why do I need people do read what I write? I am surely not naïve enough to think my writing is a bit of national treasure, to be cherished and preserved for posterity. I have written nothing worthy of attention- the two years of blogging have only been an invitation to view what could well have been written and stacked away in diaries in an attic, to be found years later, dust-covered and moth-eaten, by a generation that would scoff at or be amused by the old-fashioned reminiscences of ‘the good times’. Curiosity and a keen eagerness to improve are the only valid reasons that I can think of, really. Curiosity to see how disinterested people view the few incidents and accidents that mark a plain, ordinary life, things that are not out of a book or a movie and could just as well happen to them. Do I write because I simply want to spread happiness and tell people that no matter how hopeless life seems at times, there is that one occasional minute, one fleeting moment, that can make up for all the pain? I honestly doubt that I have any such altruistic motive.
This craving to be read is probably just a phase, and will pass soon enough. I know it will, because deep inside, I know nobody needs a reason to write. Don’t you see how words linger in the air, waiting to be grasped, and your mind extends invisible, intangible fingers, that still make their presence felt, to clutch at them and string them together in coherent sentences? Disjoint, perhaps, in the greater whole, and not making enough sense, written down nevertheless because they are simply inviting to be. A spectacular sunset and the people on the train- no connection whatsoever, yet belonging to one single world and calling themselves hoarse to observe them, write about them. Now this, I’d say, is what writing is all about. Finding inspiration in the simplest things, writing because you feel like it, because you can’t sleep, not waiting for a magnum opus to come along and sweep people off their feet, just pulling the words out of an invisible hat and setting them down. How does it matter if you don’t have a great vocabulary and don’t read the classics?
Blame this bit of rambling on nature and biology. I have been trying to keep from sleeping since half past one in the morning, because I have to work the night shift this week, but my body insists on going to bed, and if I sleep this early, I’ll end up drowsing at work tonight. But then, as I said, who needs a reason to write? I’ve had my catnap, and now I’m good to go for atleast a couple more hours, before my brain starts sending out the signals again.