Its nearly three in the morning and now after many many days I feel the need to write. Not just that standard niggling sensation which plagues those who pursue resolutions, but a strong, undeniable compulsion to let out my unworthy thoughts. Why write? Why write now, something which is not profound but just spontaneous. Something which my need to self represent without dilution, will not allow for the cleaning up of. With sentences too long and no central cause or purpose to the entire piece. With an unhealthy disregard for punctuation and dramatic pauses and abruptness representative of the volatility of my thoughts.
I never aspire to portray any of the famous eccentricity which artists so proudly lay claim to. I don’t wish to be so out of the box that I can’t see what goes on in the box. For it is the daily disturbances of the unthinking folk that the greatest thoughts shall be found. In the most menial of repetitive chores shall lie anything worth studying. Look at your life at this very moment, reflecting on all your troubles, anything that plagues you today. Now how many of these things are completely impossible to correct? How much of your life has its leash held in hands other than yours? I am not trying to be inspirational for that I guess I’d myself have to be inspired. I claim no such elevated state of existence, I just want to be content.The point which is so desperately trying to make itself here is the perceived abstraction of the locus of control when it comes to one’s problems.
So again that question from which I meandered, why write this? Certainly not for consumption. There is little value for a muddled mind’s ramblings to any other mind. Yes there is the hope of association and the acknowledgement that what I am thinking as I put these words together, comprises of thoughts shared by others. How does such knowledge help me? Not very much these days. My confidence rarely requires that slight boost which it sought in its younger days. The lucidity of my expression is perhaps a greater factor in selling my thoughts than the actual quality of what I think. But what do I know? I lay here on my bed, in a position not unlike that of the Sphinx, writing without direction at 3 AM. The only discernible reason for my moderated joyousness could be my getting back to writing. For after a long struggle with a dormant brain, production finally has restarted. The initial batch of sentences and paras shall probably not pass Quality Assurance tests. But soon I shall be back on my feet, wielding the power of expression in the naive hope that what I have to say is worthy of being said.
PotSoup for the Soul 