Homonyms: Wax Poetic

Walking around in the sands of time, life to me has never been predictable. I wake up in the morning, look outside towards the horizon through the dusty window panes only to see a beautiful day full of sunshine. Gaia dresses herself up and presents to us choices, to pick from an infinitesimal possibility, to dabble in romance in her chastity with her consent. But, in the northern parts of the sky, a group of Bedouin clouds form together and transpire to ruin and rob her of her beauty. And within moments, the day that had so much potential turns bleak. To me, such is life.

Such intricacies have taught me to never expect anything from it. So usually, I let myself flow with the current. I drift from one place to another. Do whatever the situation demands, whenever it demands. For that reason, I have not ever been bound to an exclusive hour of the clock while writing. I write whenever I feel like writing. I write whatever I feel like writing about. But I have realized that the most complicated aspects of life come to play around in my mind only at night. A log-normal distribution for that reason may put the peak of the words that come out of my mind, perhaps right after midnight.

I am a self-proclaimed observer. Rather a watcher. Someone who watches and observes anything and everything about life. I know that it may sound like I am preaching to the choir, and all of what I am saying is absolutely superficial to many. But that is what I feel like. That, to me, is my purpose. So I write, or to be more accurate, like to write about life. Write about the pragmatic notions of being human. Though I feel like I have managed to only observe a meagerly fraction of what the world has to offer. And I have done nothing but a shit job at that.

When I read back the stuff I wrote, to me, they feel congested, constipated like the morning poop after a night out of drinking and eating unhealthy, unhygienic street foods. No matter how much you push, it does not come out as swiftly as it should. Because of that, I have nothing to show for the years I have spent writing menial animal manure. And to be honest, that is what makes me more sad and depressed. I have so much room to improve, but the vast and thick walls keeps me surrounded and do not allow me to go anywhere. So yes, I have nothing to show for when I have to answer the question, "is there any writing of mine that has managed to land on my list of favorites?"

The first time I had ever picked up a pen to write something, it was to write a letter to my mother dearest. I have never shown it to anyone and it does not count as something I wrote for myself. So a more accurate answer would be a short story I had written when I was about 9 or 10. That, too, I have never shown to anyone.

If any of you have had the privilege of growing up reading Tin Goyenda, then you have had a beautiful childhood. After the writer who started the series, Rokib Hasan, had stopped and the new author came in, his literature would seem so far away from how it had begun. Though most of the stories Rokib Hasan himself had blatantly stolen from Alfred Hitchcock, I enjoyed growing up with the three teenagers hobbyist sleuths. And enjoyed the original prose the author had introduced to us. So, when he had washed his hands off of the series, I felt a part of my life was taken away. To get it back, I had written a short story that had all of my favorite characters in it. That was the first thing I had ever written for myself.

As I superfluously label myself to be an observer, when I read, I read about almost anything and everything that encompasses an easily readable prose. Maybe that is why sometimes my pieces to even to myself, seem to be erratic. I don't have a favorite writer or a book. I never tried to compare a book with each other, or a writer to each other. Because, if the writers are cooks and the books are the foods, then every single one of them is supposed to taste different and unique. Some might be more appealing and appetizing than each other, but foods and books are never to be wasted.