The first month of 2013 is at its closure, but still I haven’t written anything for the year. People are there who think this is not an issue, but it is certainly an issue for me. While scanning the cobwebbed corners of my memory box for some past experiences that I might have missed while chronicling my childhood memories through this blog, I suddenly thought about a dream that I saw when I was very young.
In my dream, I found a very old notebook with full of stories composed by a very younger me in a thoroughly illegible handwriting. But, I remember, it had that cuteness, which is peculiar to childhood days. I found it in a very awkward, very unlikely place. The season was the beginning of monsoon. Very small and moderately bigger springs used to sprout at some corners of our farmlands. The water was crystal clear, and the sight of its smooth flow with burbling sound was incidentally inciting thirst. I found my forgotten childhood writing from within one of those springs which used to have their recurring appearance during rainy season, every year. When the rain was slightly down, I walked to a nearby rocky area, and found this old book lying open projecting some of those silly animal names to the world through the transparent water, as if its intention was to belittle my craziness in front of the whole world.
That was the time, when I used to scribble childish stories for self pleasure. The dream I saw was something related to that. After writing stories motivated by the popular children’s magazines, I had this curious tendency to believe that there were some unwritten stories remaining in some of the bags and bundles of my childhood trashes in the house and its premises where I had my upbringing. The characters of my stories usually were animals and birds who thought, behaved and walked like human beings. But unfortunately all of my animal characters had an unjustifiable disgust towards the human kind. The names of those characters were very funny and at the same time silly, I remember.
More and more stories featuring the characters molded in the same replica were written, but was not totally satisfying for me. You wouldn't know the degree of crappiness you write, but still you have this dumbfounding belief that whatever you produced was no lesser than the classics. (I still have that belief!) There was a tendency to repeat the plot and type of characters in the following stories also, after finding an intimacy with a self authored story. Written stories were read, over and over again, and sometimes I was bored with the same kind of stories and narratives. Secretly I wished that if some other stories were kept hidden in some depths of my trash bag, which were completely or nearly forgotten, even though they were written by myself.
After writing 100 plus blog posts, I feel that there are still many blog posts which are not completely by-hearted by me. You know, I have this curious tendency of reading my own blog posts time and time again till I find reading them one last time as a completely boring job.
