Why should the heart always win over the brain is a question that haunts me for years and I am yet to find an answer even though I claim to have seen a few decades in my life time. Mentioning -how many decades-would eventually reveal my age and my intention now is certainly not to be included in the ageing or aged group. Milton, the great English poet claims that iron bars do not make a cage, and I in the same vein claim that passing years do not make old age.

 

Back to serious topics, there is no dearth of ambitious plans to be pursued before one “arrives”. The arrival might mean status and riches for the ordinary mortals, but not to the special and ordained “ME.” To “ME” it means recognition in creative writing. In my mental eye I see my bottom glued to my writer’s chair, creating literature at the speed of Abhinav Bindra’s gold winning bullet. Reality is otherwise; I spend hours at computer games. The so called free time disappears in a jiffy through the finger tip exercise which involves clicking just the navigator keys. Game after game is either won or lost and is
re-played with the self-made-and-meant-to-be-broken promise,” This one is the last.”

 

Look at the achievers reaching the limelight before crossing their twenties. Here I am at my …oh… no…. didn’t I say that I would not divulge my age. Perhaps I should say (just as the exasperated parent uses the age of the donkey to refer to the wasted years of the progeny) that I am of the age of two or three and a half (and a half!?!) donkeys. But again the age of the donkey might be kept a secret lest the readers should use their mathematical abilities to calculate ‘you know what.’

 

Does the donkey know that it is compared with its human contemporaries? Does it refer to the counterparts in the derogatory manner when it comes to tutoring its offspring? Imagine the father-donkey braying at the weak-kneed son” you are the age of two and half humans and yet unable to carry two loads of laundry.” Ha… ha… isn’t it real fun? The adage that we get what we give can never be truer.

 

Call this funny? My mood is not at all funny. Cannot scoff the stuff RK.Rowlings are made of. This is supposed to be a somber occasion; the muse is expected to descend from her pedestal and touch with her magic wand so that I would be inspired to reel out reams and reams of interesting and absorbing stuff that people of all ages and regions would love and compete to read. Newspapers are keen to print trivia about me to augment the readership and the television channels virtually battle to air my interviews. The day is not far off when I have to avoid the media in order to have a few moments of privacy and there…ok…ok… I get the point; I can ill afford to brag in the same strain if I entertain any hope of retaining my reader.

 

You… my avid reader….are you still there?

 

It’s all right; I do understand… no offence… guys/girls….if you have moved out.

 

Yes… the fantasy borders on the ludicrous….that is why it is tough to pour out the heart. It is tougher still to activate the brain…to stoke the latent ember. Leashes of abuse fail to provoke a reaction. Sudden sparks die early deaths in aborted attempts.

 

To sit in front of the computer screen and gaze at the blank page and wait for inspiration that is never going to strike is the bane of every budding writer. It then becomes not only easy but also natural to switch over to games which are designed to engage the player for hours and the passage of time is neither felt nor regretted.

 

My heart has virtually walked out of this article. The brain is numb as usual. So what the heck if the question posed at the beginning remains unanswered? My games are beckoning and I leave with a promise to return. I do not bat an eye lid about making the promise. From experience I know that promises are made not only to be kept but also to be broken.

 

—————————————THE END——————————————————

 

http://chitrawrites.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/09/ramblings-of-a-deranged-writer.htm