Walk down the memory lane

[Here's some more rambling from old days. The journey down the memory lane is proving to be quite revealing. Here's a diary entry I made long back. Hope my Blog Readers will enjoy this short trip...]

Wednesday, 05 November 2008, 2:53:30 AM:

This is the first time this is happening. I am typing without any goal. I am typing just because I feel like typing. I feel like feeling my fingers on the keys of my laptop. I love it. Every keystroke reminds me of something. I don’t understand what it reminds me of—perhaps the old days when I used to write with vigour, when all I thought about was writing, when stories flooded my brain just waiting to be written down. Perhaps it reminds me of the days and nights that I spent in front of my old computer (my beloved one) typing and just typing—program codes, stories... Ah! Such good old days!

Where have they gone? Time flies so swiftly. I wish I could stop the flow of time and turn it back. I wish I could go back to the moment when I had raised my hand and said ‘Stop’ to a bus coming to a bus stop, with a girl beside me, hoping that time would freeze and I would be there with her forever. How soon time passed by us! How quickly have three years passed! I have barely breathed and ages have passed before my eyes. It scares me. The speed at which time gallops scares me. What if tomorrow I wake up and find out that I am an old man with a life of no significance behind me? How would I feel when I know that I have wasted my entire life, doing nothing noteworthy, nothing that would be remembered by anyone? What if I wake up old and regret that I have never lived?

When was the last time I had written something that had truly pleased me? That was a long time back, in January. That was when I had finished ‘The Teacher’. That was the last time when I had bore the fruit of my imagination. I have wasted a year doing nothing, thinking nothing, writing nothing. I have given sanctuary to a deadly sin—the sloth. And it has been feeding on me since then—ensnaring me with its ancient roots. When I look back now I see the plans and resolutions I had made before the start of this semester—about how I would write new stories, about how I would write program codes, about how I would solve the problem about prime numbers, about how I would learn more about Artificial Intelligence, about how I would study cryptography...the list goes on. So many resolutions and promises that transpired into nothing! Such pity!

And now I am reduced to writing down the very first thing that comes to my mind. Forcing myself to keep typing even though I have no idea where I am headed. I have no idea what my next line would be. I am typing the words as they are coming to me. I am totally lost.

Perhaps that is good—this getting lost business. May be I’ll find a way hidden in the murkiness that is off the forest road. May be that is why getting lost is so important—to find a way that would not be found otherwise. But how do I recognise the path when I get there. May be I will have to rely on my instincts. May be this is the best way to find it. I just need to keep walking through the woods, blindly if necessary, hoping I would stumble upon a new road that would lead me Shangri-La. Till then I must keep walking. I must not retire.

So what should I write? The first thing that comes to my mind is examinations. The end of semester examinations are closing in. They are barely a month away. I had better begin to take things seriously before they get out of hands. I have to complete and revise so much that I barely see any breathing space. But I know I will make through. I always do. No matter how dire the situation seems to appear, I have always found my way out. I will survive this storm too.

Speaking of storms, I remember my walk two days back. I was returning home after not making it to the finals of a writing competition. On my way I thought about the possible reasons for my failure. The only thing that stood out among all the reasons was that I did not deserve to go into the finals. I did not write any more as if it were a part of my life. In fact, I barely write these days. But that was not just restricted to this writing business only. I was not doing all those things that I was supposed to do. Instead, I was just wasting my time lying on the bed with an empty mind and an empty soul. I searched for answers to questions I did not understand. I asked to empty space why I felt miserable without the faintest desire to make myself feel any better. And during my way back home, I realized that I had to change my life for good before it was too late. I decided to go for a walk to set my life back on course.

Now where does the storm fit in. It is of no literal significance. But thinking of it abstractly, I have spun my fingers to create a whirlwind in my life. I hope that it would shake me out of this doldrums. But that is not all about the storm. During my walk, I saw a writing on the side of an over-bridge—‘Homes made beautiful’. Just a few steps from the writing, few people were huddling under the bridge, trying to make themselves comfortable in their homes. Homes indeed made beautiful! What do I know about storms and hardships! What right do I have to complain about my life? What right do I have to ask the question—why am I not better off? These people, living on the edge of life in the middle of a city that is supposed to be the reason of pride for many! It makes me wonder...

Where do I get from here? What am I to do with the life that has been given to me. When I was younger my goals were clearer and I was certain about what I was supposed to do. But now, just after a year or two, everything appears so uncertain. The more I seek out for my dreams the more I am faced by my limitations. The more I try to find out what I can do the more I discover the things that I cannot do. And yet I have this spark left inside me—very dim it has become. This dying flame has stirred up something inside me today that has pushed me into writing something—no matter what. All the same, this flame is dying. What is worse—only I can save it from dying. Nobody else can do that for me. And I know what I must do. The problem is that I am not too sure any more that I can do it.

All my life I have waited for someone to come and show me the way. I have always hoped that somebody else would show me what to do and where to go. I had wanted to be free, and yet at the same time I had wanted to be a slave. I had wanted someone to set me free. And even after all these years I am waiting to be set free and not be free. The funny bit is that I know what is wrong. It is just that I cannot fix the wrong. Or maybe I do not believe that I can right the wrong. Maybe that is why I fail.

So, if I believe that I can overcome any hurdle, I can actually overcome that hurdle! That sounds amazing. But, I don’t believe that entirely yet. I can only hope that I will be able to believe, and in good time.

That is another mystery—this hope thing. I have thought about it a lot of times and I have come to many conclusions about it. Sometimes it feels like a great source of strength. Sometimes it appears to be foolishness. Sometimes I don’t believe that there is anything that is called hope. And sometimes I hope that hope will keep me alive. Ah! Such mysteries! And how little I understand them!