Introspective excursions

It may indeed appear as clichéd when I try to write that nothing is ever complete as is true of the corollary that no output is ever incomplete. This is about the desire to design rather than the design desired- if this is not still OK, then let me put it straight: let me be me (not the politically and grammatically correct myself);  i believe in the theory that me and self are not distinctly different with many of my abilities and disabilities.

Why do I have go around in circles to write what my mind feels? The tragedy of vocabulary is in the choices that it offers, and the inevitable tragedy of choice is in the manifestation of one’s greed.

I do not know whether I am a new voice, but every moment when I utter, even in silence, every word is intoned differently to mean something other and more than what had been learnt. Every voice, and for that matter every sound is new. Even a recorded sound is not an echo. Echoes search, sounds declare. Every song begins as a sound, and it is not just destiny that makes sound a noise or music. It is the will- The will to do. Perhaps one can neutralize the defeatist’s aggression by saying even will is destined and destiny can be willed.

Am I speaking the complete truth, the absolute truth and nothing less than the truth? Is such an expression possible? When I put the final full stop, is my page finished? Have i  said everything? Have I even finished hinting the unsaid? When reality is just a horizon in the journey, can simple photographs alone portray the end point?  Every essay, story, letter and speech- blogs being the new form of speech, are photographs freezing moments in thought. They do describe, but they do not wish to project beyond their self-designed frames. Having come to know that whatever I write may never be complete and my book will be full of unfinished pages, why do I write?

It has never been so that I have to write just as how I have to eat, drink, defecate and urinate. It- I mean assembling words, has been more like breathing- essential, unnoticed, unintentional and occasionally difficult. I prefer to call this assemblage of words than writing because when the ensemble is set on paper many parts would have fallen away and lost in unknown void. I do not wish to dare to describe this as a thought process, as thought is an empty canvass brought to life by words stroked meaningfully at times and in a chaotic frenzy too sometimes.

Well, having assembled words, do I need to display them? Most certainly yes because. unless whatever it was that I had created is put on a stand/table/pedestal, I cannot step back to view it in its totality. Inability to step back and look at oneself, as one is always one’s own self’s creation, would always err in the perspectives. Errors can not all be erased. Erasures too leave a mark for the discerning eye. To erase is the pride of being too proud to let mistakes be shown. Erasures help, not only the self but the significant other. The readers, listeners and viewers are also benefited by erasures. Erasures ensure that every halo is repainted with further finesse. With this armor shall all ramblings pass off as poetry beyond the most critical scrutiny.

And, if I have to erase what do I erase? And then what do I redo? Should I at all attempt again? Can creativity be a repeat performance? It is at this point of query that one decides to adjust, accommodate and cover-up mistakes; it is at this juncture that one tries to pose a slip as a step in a dance. It is this vital, carefully camouflaged point, that one should be aware of for oneself- not just as a producer but also as a consumer. This would be the real test when one is one’s own consumer as well as one’s own producer. One should never be a product but a process. Rhetoric sometimes does express more clearly than a simple sentence. And so we come back to the starting point.

Was there ever a starting point, and is there ever a finishing point? If circles are the design of human thought, how do we design spirals? Can a spiral be suspended in time or space like vagabond words that become lost thoughts? This is not a fatalistic or pessimistic rambling. It is just a beginning of many in which I share confusion for clarity.

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