I wrote this piece on 2nd Feb, 2015. Well, I can’t really say I was emotionally stable back then, but then a writer is never stable, mentally. This piece is a form of experimental writing which is called Stream of Consciousness – discovered by Virginia Woolf – in which you have to write every frame of sentence that first comes to your mind. You just have to lay down your pure thoughts creating tumult in your brain on a piece of paper. I think I did exactly that. Here it goes, read at your own risk:
I have an interview a day after tomorrow. Where? Ashoka University. Never heard of it? Well, even I heard of it a few months back. But it is a good university. Does it really matter if it is good university or not? Of course. It matters, because then only I would be able to meet some of the great minds of this country. I would only then be able to see through many things that still blind me. I want to learn. As much as I can. How is this possible? By meeting new people. Constantly. On a regular basis. How is this possible? First, go to Ashoka. Then, travel India. Then, travel this world. Why was I crying for a girl just a few days back? Was it love? Is it love? Do I know the answer? No. Why am I writing here? Because I have never written for self for a long time. I always write for myself. For my self. It is just that I let others read it. But here I am looking into myself. I am looking into my mind. I am writing everything that is coming to mind. Every first thought is being typed into the white screen. Typing takes a lot of time, even when you are good at it. I wonder if I would have only spoken what I want to write and it would have been typed along by itself. That day isn’t far away. Humans are comfort seeking animals. We will always manage to invent what we dream. If not today, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, next month. If not next month, next year. Or may be in a decade, or a century, or a thousand years, or a million years, a or a billion. But we will always fulfill our dreams as a species. Fantasies are dreamt to be lived one day. We are the living proofs of this quote, that I just wrote myself. It is not in quotes, but it is still a quote. Was it really necessary to write I invented this quote? Am I an egotist? Of course, I am! I have been talking about myself. I have been writing about my mind. I, I and I. Blank. Blank. Woman are the epitome of beauty. Though, beauty is relative. But clime and women are the two most beautiful experiences in this world. I always cherish and fantasize about them. Even Kalidas used to. Did I just compare myself to Kalidas? I am arrogant. Woman make me happy. Many would call it lust. I call it love. Love is a word no one in this world can define. But everybody, I meant every individual has either defined it in his own mind or wrote it on a paper and published it. Love is undefinable. It is different for different minds. It is your discovery of yourself. It is your belief. It is your understanding of this world. Love is unknown. I is the first world that I write in a sentence. I write I and the sentence revolves around I. I comes natural to me. I is me. I is first person. I is my memory. I is faff. I is logic. I is blank. Blank. Mars is a red planet. I just saw a dog there. And an American Flag. A satellite. But I am an Indian. My sub-conscious is deplorable. Autism is a disease. As if people didn’t know. But why would someone be still reading what I am writing. This piece is a failure. I can not see what lies in mind and heart. It is blocked. I’ll have to meditate. This exercise sucks.
What the fuck! I just wrote 610 words of pure faff in just 9 minutes. I type really good.