This is my first post.
Post several re- tries and attempts at commencing my first letter to the unknown reader and to myself, I find the right words. The right words – what a silly phrase to use . . . is there anything known as ‘the right words’? The right words are nothing but a cliché, an excuse to prolong the beginning a little longer, a writer’s nightmare – What if I never get the right words, will I be ever able to start? The pen just stops at the question of the right words, the ink surfacing on the nib and drying, collecting air bubbles; the stomach twists itself into an anxious knot at the mention of the right words; the brain freezes and loops like a faulty tape, going in circles and crazy shapes.
The human mind is a fastidious potter, it gives shape to thoughts and erodes them over and over again . . . adding more water, less lime . . . some more churning until it exhausts itself out and loses focus of the original idea. After 2 weeks of restless contemplation and repeated experimentation, this is what I achieve . . . This is my first post . . . why did something so simple and honest as that not strike me earlier?
Moving on, what a pleasant delight is it to start blogging again! There is so much that I have to tell, so much to show that I fear I may run out of words for all that. There is excitement in blogging; a certain romanticism in writing memoirs which may be found by anyone, picked up and read, which may possibly touch lives or leave another soul longing to know more about the author of the letters he has found in some recess of cyberspace. It has always been an infantile fancy of mine, ever since I read The Diary of Anne Frank, to write confessions and reminiscences from my life which may be discovered long after I am gone- in the leaking print and yellowed pages of which I may come alive once more. A blog then, if you can entertain yourself with my romantic notions, is in a sense much more than an online journalling of thoughts and adventures – it is a piece of some one’s life.
The Nonsense Diaries – the Letters is a spilling medley of anecdotes of some of my craziest days, of my most bizarre fantasies and eccentricities. It is a grand ensemble of light-headed sallies that only a person of my unique age (trapped between childhood and sober adulthood) can be capable of amusing himself with. It is, speaking candidly, just a caboodle of riff-raff, of hogwash and poppy rot! My nonsense is colorful and vivid, it has shimmer, it is verbose (as is so evident), flamboyant and playful. It is wild and whimsical, smart and musical. It is just not any nonsense, nay don’t embarrass me with encouraging such thoughts – I am very passionate about my nonsense and would write nothing less than fine nonsense, mind you!
Now, I am sure that my patient reader must be itching, dying to ask of me that why? Why would I be so willing to subject an item of potent writing to be called mere nonsense? Why this self devaluation? And if you are not interested in asking of me this then all your meaningful reading of this letter (if there is any meaning in my nonsense) ends here. But if you are the reader whose mind I read correctly, then the only answer I can give is in form of an another question- who decides what is sense?
If you are still puzzled and addled from what I have given you to chew over than be sure to read my next letter of nonsense which shall come about pretty soon enough. This abrupt stop because my word limit is through the roof now – I never seem to get a leash on it. And besides, this leaves you in a mind gnawing suspense which will compel you to read further, so that ensures that I don’t lose readership- hah!
