28.01.2010.
I am writing again. Why wasn’t I? I couldn’t find time to go buy ink for my fountain pen. Why couldn’t I? I had taken over as Spiderman. And let’s be sincere here… saving the world is a tough job. The constant stress gave Peter Parker blood sugar and high blood pressure. Okay I too wanted out but the job scene is bad, even call centres aren’t hiring. Aha! Bad sense of humour intact… sarcasm too.
Why didn’t I write for more than two months?
From what my Mother and Aunt fondly recount my first attempts at writing surfaced when I was around seven years old. Domestic folklore unfolds that the first half page manuscript in Bengali was a detective novel involving the theft of a diamond, a suspicious phone call and the author as the protagonist. The author after running out of ideas to further the plot self-respectingly left it at – “to be continued…” In my imagination I think it was my subconscious proclamation that I would continue to write. I wrote in some form or the other throughout my life. However the Nautilus Chronicles is my first serious attempt at a journal. I started it as I realized that though relief comes with purging but catharsis can only come through confession. And I confess that I am not good at confession. This journal is my confessional. I write in litotes, irony, the nth entendre and more in connotation than denotation not for the triumph of semantics.
I didn’t write as there was nothing worth writing about. I never force myself to write. I only pen my thoughts when the words fall free but not free falling.
I have complex problems.
Each complex problem I have has simple, easy to understand wrong answers.
My attitude does not help solve my problems. But it annoys enough people to prove its worth.
I sometimes fluctuate between exuberant happiness and tragic melancholy. I am not sure if that reflects my personality or my life.
I henceforward plan to be impressively happy. Always… err perhaps almost always.
