I don’t write anymore because I no more relate to writing. I no more believe that writing helps. Why I began writing in first place or why I started this blog that has got orphaned.. I can only dare myself to give an answer.. Do I have any answers? I don’t write anymore because I don’t like to hear that “But for a science student, you are really good at writing”. That hurts my diaries and scribbles and random two-liners. As if the pages of the diaries scream out to me and to them- “ What has Science got to do with us?”. I don’t write because I don’t know which realm do I belong to. The categories tag in my blog stays almost constant- #love #thoughts #modernlove #poetry #uncategorizedl. While here near my window I have thoughts to write about science careers, lives in labs, fashion, city fests, festivals, bad health, state of helplessness and what not, the thoughts never find the way to written words and now they have begun to take revenge. So I don’t write anymore because I don’t want to start again on the same old brag of the heart as that poet mentioned.
I don’t write poetry anymore. Because I see it happening all around me. Everyday, every moment. I see poetry unfold in infinitesimally small unit of time. Could I ever pen it down? Could I ever do justice to the storms getting born in my circumference? Could I ever write about circles without knowing the center or the radius? What exactly do poets write? And this is my doubt after apparently being witness to some of the most beautiful poetic gatherings and slams. So I don’t write anymore because I don’t know circles and geometry was never my favorite. Poetry is geometry? Oh dear Lord!
Due to reasons that never had I ever imagined would exist in my journey, I get to be on “bed-rest” more often that I would like to be. And on both my sides are book-shelves. I am sure I have read all those books at least once. They are Biology, Maths, Metaphysics, Chemistry, Statistics, Magical Realism, Romance, books for competitive exams, Sanskrit. There’s Hindi version of Devdas right there on the top. And staring at them, I see them all in one light of a stupid question- “ How could these people sum up what they wanted in one book? These books that we honor so much, do they really give us all that the writer had to offer?”
In my village, evenings do not lead into “night life”. The night life is a variable depending on whether it is the “Jhingur” season. Howls of the Siyaar are often a promised party. As a kid, my evenings on the terrace would be occupied in looking up the rather clear sky and descending of stars and wondering about all the possibilities and patterns. Nobody told me this before the books that there were billion such celestial objects but somehow every every evening I knew-” This is not the only view. This is not enough”
So I don’t write because it’s just not enough.