Ever since I have seen myself gathering sanity, I have found myself writing. For in my nascent years, I was not as expressive as I should have been. But somehow I never could develop an attitude for speaking and putting it in a manner that would connote the right context and meaning. My voice or instead tone, never matched my intent. My vehemence chose the mildest words. My tenderness was pitted to be the rudest. I was definitely not at one of the most conducive environment in my academic years. There is no one to be blamed for that since it had more to do with my own reflex. There was a lot to be fancied at, a lot more to be baffled by. I always tried to fit in. In the name of befriending people, many a time, I deposited to their deductions which I knew were not always bright.
My mind always thronged with thoughts. My head debauched prolifically and I always knew I had better inferences & ideas. But even if I tried placing those to their judgement, I was never approved of. This led to a sinking feeling which people term ‘Fear of missing out’ these days, a higher degree of which is called depression. Depression, a state of mind where a person is left to sulk at his/her own disposal. I lost out on many things/people owing to this. A dramatic consequence of an impulse of this magnitude could result in literal volcanic eruptions inside your brain. And that’s exactly what happened? Not once, but in a number good enough throw every bit of lucidity out of my body. The catharsis kept elongating itself through my teens.
Not much has changed till now as far as those illogical deductions are concerned, which I keep encountering very frequently. Except that now keeping things to myself (at least some of them) have allowed me to give them a shape more enduring and peaceful. Giving explanations to save a relationship is something I don’t subscribe to anymore. Reasoning is limited to only those I love. I have left people to leave me. But wait.. how did that happen?
One day in my college years, I stumbled upon this cute little book in a book fair, the name of which I can’t remember. What I do remember is one of the lines in its prologue, which said … ‘Paper has more patience then people’. Little did I know it would prove to be my road to Damascus? This line had an eternal impact on me like one magical potion. I anyway resorted to reading to find an escape from an otherwise hollow world. I used to write as well but that was limited to nondescript diary entries every now and then. I started penning down my unheard voice, waiting to be pulled out of an abyss, not known to everyone. Writing released me of the shackles, which I had built around me. It broke the walls of validation. I never had to take any permissions or go around asking for endorsements. I smiled on the paper, I cried, loved & laughed. It became a therapy of sorts. The one which only nurtured me within. It found me a purpose on an otherwise swampland where I was stranded wildly. It took me back from the labyrinths of abreaction. It was something I could do for hours without being put to subjugation.
Here, I should mention that before I could realise writing can also be a mainstream career option, I had already surpassed the stage of making a choice. Not that I feel it can’t be changed now. I was a full-fledged Company Secretary by the age of 22 and was a working professional in an unforgiving place called corporate. I worked for 5 long years and met more taxing individuals, ready to bog you down at drop of a hat. I would never say it didn’t add anything to my character. They were the choices who made me what I am today. An individual, who can grasp, observe and conclude in a more operative manner. Less to put it across the world, much to my own self.
I started freelance writing. Much to my stupor, I was taken hands on. But the picture was different altogether when it came to a regular job. Everyone wanted a degree or a certification in the field. They all succumbed to a conventional approach that has been cascading to mount pages on the rulebook, a man-made reckoner. It made them look through passion and interest, sticking mostly to the norms followed by everyone else in the business. I had, by now, decided to get back to my old field and take up writing side by side. I did get a job but for some reason, resigned. Something wasn’t right. It didn’t allow me to be my best. I started feeling chained again. I took it as a sign and started writing again, this time in a much-organized way.
Starting a blog was a stint I had both dreamt and dreaded. For it needed enough time and I was fickle minded to an extent of infinity. I could only do one thing at a time. But since I could now give all my time to it, I plunged. It has been a year and a half now that I am stuffing it with the repertoire of thoughts that my head floods with. It has drawn a good response so far but I am still finding my ways and means to combat the demons that come with it. As to how to monetize it and make it a regular income source. But what soothes me is the fact that I finally have picked something I would at least enjoy doing. This life, despite all the fatigue that your mind experience, is comforting. Which I always found missing in my corporate job where I always came back home complaining about something or the other.
Today, my demeanour is understood to be that of a chirping bird. I am afraid to tell people that it is a sort of side effect that my personality has suffered. I have remained quiet on most of my significant life instances. And since I can’t undo anything, my neutrality takes a back seat every now and then. I am still an unfathomable homo-sapien for many, save that now I don’t allow ‘FOMO’ creep in. I take the world hands on. I still find myself crammed up with tensions. I still fight my inner demons but only to release them on paper. Writing is treating the impatient in me. It has brought me back from numb. It has nourished me to flourish and I can only be honest when I say this.