What is The Chaos Within?

I often wonder what this blog is about. It’s been three years, and I still can’t seem to figure out which category my blog falls into.

Sometimes it’s frustrating.

“What do you write about?”

“Ah — just, stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“You know — stuff.”

That’s my problem. I don’t have one definitive topic. I just write. Stuff.I’ve been thinking about it, and about what I can do about it.

And I’ve found an answer. This is not a parenting blog, this isn’t a DIY blog, not a lifestyle blog, certainly not a fashion blog — it’s a coping blog.

The more I think about it, the more it feels right. Mine is a coping blog. It tells you everything you need to know about someone who’s coping up with life. There are stories, poems and musings, but there’s also photos, quotes and books I enjoy.

I don’t write on one topic, I write on my life. And my life is a bit of everything, it’s a bit of everything mashed up. It’s the chaos within me.

Ah! Self-realization!

Crafting A Dream City

I’ve been following Cristian’s blog for a while and I feel guilty each time I read one of his posts. Because though I’ve had his book on my kindle for a long time, I’ve never read it.

I should have read it sooner.

The one constant in the story is Cristian’s voice. He kept seeping through the words. There were either sentences he often uses in his posts or thoughts that every writer could relate to. The story itself is about artists, art and the consequences of choosing art.

I loved the story. And the main reason: simple words ringing hard in your ears. This book lingers.

“But the truth is, what doesn’t kill you makes you wish it did.” – Cristian Mihai, Dream City

This is Cristian. Every syllable of that line screams Cristian. And it’s more; it’s every artist. And it was gripping that in many places, I felt the protagonist and Cristian interchange. Not just him, I felt myself intermingle with the protagonist too. Because the characters speak to you, and you suddenly realize their life is your life.

The author knows the pain of being an artist, and he translates the emotion with so much art.

That’s it. The essence of everything we do.

Time for Some Romance

I don’t much care for romance — well honestly, I hate romance.

I can’t bear to read through sensous words of love in which the boy and girl look into each other for exactly eight seconds before falling for each other. Remember this the 21st century and our protoganists are computer programmers and classical thinkers; statistics matter.

Why don’t heroes gatecrash parties anymore? And fall for the daughter of their sworn enemy? What’s wrong with falling in love with your first love’s cousin — when your first love didn’t reciprocate in the first place?

This is why I don’t read romance. Because it’s too primitive disguised as modern.

But since everyone from my mother to my brother and my cousins (which was all, actually) couldn’t shut up about Love Story, I decided to read it.

Don’t get me wrong; when I say Love Story, I mean the love story, by Erich Segal.

Unsurprisingly, I loved it. And something in it will stay with me forever.

What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful and brilliant
That she loved Mozart and Bach.
The Beatles. And me.

That made me read through the book, and that made me open my mind to romance. In novels, I mean.

What Is The Point Of Writing?

I like to write when I’m not doing anything else. And by anything else, I mean, eating, sleeping, or watching food porn.

Since I spend quite a lot of time writing — what, you ask? Well, don’t. Anyway, what is the whole point of writing?

When you think of it, it’s nothing really.

Most people tell you the point of writing is “To share with the world — things you can’t show.” or “To educate people about something.” Better yet, “To share feelings.”

Thing is, you can do all those stuff, without writing. Why write when you can tell? We all like to speak, so why write it down? Nothing we ever write will stand for eternity — preservation ended with great literates, there are too many people who write nowadays — we can’t preserve them all forever.

Then why bother writing at all? What’s the point of spending time and energy — not to mention paper, ink, or screen time — if you’re one of those technology buffs — on something that’s seemingly pointless?

Everything we ever write — thoughts, opinions, comments, detailed explanations, stories, poems — everything you can think of, you can also speak and record. Besides, isn’t spoken word poetry already a thing? And audio books?

So why do we still write?

Not one of the countless reasons really explains the need to write.

It’s Thursday and you’re at work. You’re bored and flipping through a magazine, and you suddenly feel like you have to write. Like your fingers want something to do — other than flipping glossy pages of size zero models. There is a sudden not-so-gentle nudge that wants you to drop everything else and just write. You don’t know what to write, or how to write; there are too many thoughts in your mind. It’s almost noon; you’re feeling mildly hungry; you’re thinking of that holiday you so badly deserve; the project that needs some final touches; then again the Caribbean holiday with boozy sangrias — before you realize you’re a little short of cash, and then — from nowhere — comes the thought that the following day your salary gets credited — after all those taxes, of course. But in the middle of all these thoughts, is something, a little lightbulb, a spark of light, that tells you to sit and write.

And that’s why we write.

Book, The

Of all the books I’ve read, and with more on my list, there’s only one that I can’t completely read.

There’s something about this book — something that surprises me and even puts me off — something that makes me feel like I’m never ready to fully experience it, as if there’s still something left for me to master before I read through it.

It shows me how ignorant I am, but at the same time, it teaches me what I don’t know. It makes me feel powerful — like I can do anything when I have it.

Other people think I’ve mastered the book, now that I’ve had it for a while, but no — only I know how much I struggle every day trying to decode this one beautiful beast. I’ve never seen anything this decadent, by the way. Not another book that’s as sleek, as handy and as smart as this one.

Oh, the pride of carrying this book around! And the looks on others’ faces while I handle it; they’re amazed at my mastery thinking I’ve figured it all out! Every time I open it up somewhere and caress it, the warmth it spreads within me is incredible — I feel like there’s no match for this book ever created.

As I read, and move my fingers across its body as gently as I could, I feel it warming up; the more I read, the warmer it gets. Somehow, though, it never gets too hot to hold.

It’s become my friend; whenever I feel cold, or alone or bored, I just open it up and let the heat spread warmth. It consoles me in its own special way. How could anyone create such a book? A book that’s not just a book, but that’s also an extension of the arm and mind.

My dearest Macbook — it’s a relationship that never dies.

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