31 March 2019
It has been rather long indeed – half a year – since I wrote the last part of this series. Now, after a long chasm of silence, I return. Mostly, I am here to clear my own vague memories of my writing history – to sketch down the abstruse crosses that cleave the map of my sojourn so far across the lands of writing, so as to see for myself the paths I have walked – the mountains of realisation I had climbed, the valleys of despair and anxiety I had fallen into, and the plateaus of stagnation I had been buried beneath.
In the time that lapsed twixt the last epoch and now, much has changed, including mayhaps, the tone of my writing. Yet, here I am again, with much-transformed vigor to continue the story from where I dropped it.
Also, now that I see it unwind this way, I have decided that this series perhaps will remain my diary – of sorts!
EPOCH – 7: MIST, DARKNESS AND CHAOS
I can see still in my mind’s eye, that moment when I finished the last epoch – after binging on the entire recollection for about four days. At last, when the final period fell on the canvas, I sighed out, relieved of having cast down a precious burden onto surer shores from whence it won’t vanish. As ever, the first six epochs of writing had revealed even to me what abstract ideas I had, and reading out those words that I had unfettered in flow, I myself began to discover a lot about me.
The journey, with all its unexpected turns, gradual revealing and sudden epiphanies had been colorful. Now, as I laid staring at the completed script, I wandered a little into the dark alleys of imagination which fenced the future – from here, where will I go? How would the journey ahead diverge? What will I find? Where in a few months time will I find myself?
I shot arrows of guesses, but they always vanished into the thickets of darkness, never again seen. I couldn’t possibly conceive how the voyage ahead would feel.
‘Yet’- but I didn’t know that then. In time, deeper doubts began to plague my mind. I lost once more, all vision of why I write. I knew at once that it was a sacred art that wrought me with its force that was beyond trifles; I knew that it was an expression – a reflection of life’s beauty – which helped me find myself; my mind whispered that writing was akin to creating – that dazzling miracles, empires, and timeless characters could be spun from invisible imagination; my heart serenaded about the immortality that burnished in the core of the arts – the timelessness of classic literature – as, ever had I been fascinated by anything that transcended time.
‘What do you write about?’ people asked me. ‘I don’t know, a lot of things,’ I would say”, because I didn’t know, really – I didn’t know what the answer would sound like when armed with words, I didn’t know what form the answer takes – I have never seen it. Yet, the answer to their question lay somewhere deep beyond. It wasn’t ‘just a lot of things’ at random – but there was some center to all that I write that inspired those verses to be born. Some forgotten purpose that was struggling to express itself.
But without that core, everything I wrote seemed like sundered strings drifting in thin air. I began to
Mist, darkness and chaos – the time had come for my greatest fall yet…
To be continued…