There seems to be a struggle for expression these days. While there is a constant flow of ideas and thoughts in my mind which I try to put down, I miserably fail to do so. Sentences, upon my reading, seem to glaringly lack meaning and substance. Words, they fail to reproduce even half of an experience, a vision, a colour, a chord. In my mind they dont flow as well-punctuated sentences. Instead,they form an abstract jumble,like graffiti on a wall, refusing to be bound by the clarity that I seek to express myself with.
It is difficult to share what is so mine. I'm not quite sure whether I would call it restless curiosity or greed that makes me want to de-track just to experience what I would not have, had I not taken a detour. I'm in the category of people who suffer from an overabundance of life and when there is a lull I have to take a walk and look for more, for fear that I might miss out on something.
I would love to share, but my inability to express is clinging on, as if it fears that a part of me would be lost if I did. So much lives in a song I grew up on, in my favourite reading spot under that tree, in a cloudy sky. Even simple experiences make my words slink away shamefully,having been made aware of their incompetency.
It seems that in general, so much is personal to me. The problem of inexpression is not half as frustrating as the need to express is. Which, in turn, is not as bothering as is the fact that you might never know what it is like to be me.
It is difficult to share what is so mine. I'm not quite sure whether I would call it restless curiosity or greed that makes me want to de-track just to experience what I would not have, had I not taken a detour. I'm in the category of people who suffer from an overabundance of life and when there is a lull I have to take a walk and look for more, for fear that I might miss out on something.
I would love to share, but my inability to express is clinging on, as if it fears that a part of me would be lost if I did. So much lives in a song I grew up on, in my favourite reading spot under that tree, in a cloudy sky. Even simple experiences make my words slink away shamefully,having been made aware of their incompetency.
It seems that in general, so much is personal to me. The problem of inexpression is not half as frustrating as the need to express is. Which, in turn, is not as bothering as is the fact that you might never know what it is like to be me.
5 comments:
lovely little essay :)
although still frustratingly insufficient, the best way of telling us what it means to be you really is to write (at least us remote ones). isnt that how bloggy connections are made?? "hey! i can relate to what this person writes!".
do you see music ?
love the thoughts. been thru it several times. and i think, somehow it's alright if people don't know what it is to be you. i write and i think others dont get even half of what i write. but i sit back and read what i've written like a self obsessed idiot, over and over again, and feel good about how good it is to be me, even though it might not! so keep writing, so that you can read it over and over. :)
Ironic, how, through this struggle for expression, you sort of know what its like to be me (or a significant aspect of being me).
It hurts every time I fail to articulate what I think.
maybe our writings are an attempt to make ourselves permanent so that the thoughts we thought, the myriad feelings we felt, our subtle observations, our insights on life, don't disappear without trace when we do, without any evidence of ever having existed. (im going to have to rephrase this better sometime)
Pankaj
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