Recurrence

I was told as a kid to keep a diary of my thoughts and it would help me back-test my thoughts as I grow older and reflect upon my own writing. I now realize how useless that attempt might have been if I had been successful. I don't find enough time to think as it is about what I am reading, how would I have found the time to back test my own theories? Well, as much as I loved the idea then, I had kept a small notebook to note down my thoughts. Well this notebook of sorts was not very unique. A very complacent green cover with a small picture of an elephant on it. I often wondered why they decided to use a small picture and leave the rest of the cover space empty. Were there other elephants expected from somewhere? Were my tiny little theories going to turn into elephants?

I loved the idea of the diary eventually, but hated the execution. I was forcing myself to come up with theories and sometimes, most often, crappy ones. So I just decided one day to burn the damn thing, after removing the elephant from its cover. I don't know why I did that, I was 8 years old. Maybe in hindsight I would like to paint another theory that I did it because I thought that the idea that I wanted to write something that was inside my head, was that first elephant that had appeared on the cover. 

12 years later, I get the same idea again, I remember the hatred for executing it, but I do it anyway. This is after I found out about blogging. But nevertheless, I found the idea of typing my thoughts on a keyboard, a lot more entertaining, because if I didn't like a thought, I could just erase it. Where do we get this luxury inside our heads? 

Well, I deleted that folder too, eventually. Same boredom, same anxiety. But computer's are funny little things. They have the ability to surprise you when you least expect (not directed to windows PC's, so mac users can stop grinning now) it.

Given the fact that I had deleted the folder, very sure I had shift+deleted the damn thing. There was a file tucked safely in a very old backup of my 'My Documents' folder. "Ok", I said to myself, what is this word doc doing here and why does its name give me a weird feeling that I have read it before somewhere? This is exactly like the time when I meet a few of my school mates, I know this guy was there somewhere around me during my school days, but who is he anyway?

A small word doc, tiny little 30 Kb-ish. I opened it and 'rubbish' was not the word to describe the look on my face. I was happy and happy at the same time. Something from the past had traveled and reached out to me. I felt like a part of some history which I had created and now I am looking back at it, with the same anxiety as I felt when I created it. The fact that history can be so misleading that it can also make you forget that this file was password protected by me just to avoid the same look on my face. Another wave of rubbishness went past my face. What could be the key, to unlock this piece of history? I instantly created three identical copies of me inside my head. I wanted them to stand facing each other forming an equilateral triangle, trying to figure out the mystery and the camera constantly rolling around them like a house fly around my favorite muffin. 

There were no answers in this dramatic sequence. I cut the scene and tried, this time seriously, trying to figure out what was I thinking when I created this file. Well I came to the conclusion that the answer has to be obvious, since this file was left here for a reason and if I wanted the future me to find it, then the past me - who was stupid enough to password protect it - would have also kept a key under the rug. I typed the words - "thisisstupid" (this is stupid) & the file opened. 

Without further incoherent slurrrr, here's what I found under the title of "Recurrence":

Recurrence - 

"When I first realized that I could write and that too (self assessed) sightly better than what I had perceived I could write, it came as a surprise that words were automatically taking shape inside my skull. When I wrote them, it always felt like a tap was leaking somewhere in the house. Wasnt sure if it was the kitchen sink or the bathroom, but something was definitely leaking. Its rhythmic dripping syncing with the clattering of my keyboard.

The second realization was slightly more subtle. Watching my words on the screen taking shape into a coherent thought which didn't really exist few minutes ago, was pleasing and disturbing at the same time. 'What do I make of all this?' It is not easy for me to look at my own thoughts out there taking tangible shape. I thought it might cause havoc if set free. Like a convicted serial killer who escapes from prison aided by a corrupt prison guard. Corrupted as my mind could have been, it is capable of inflicting even more pain, drip by drip, word by word with the help of a publishing medium which doesnt really give an ass about anybody. Blogging became the new anxiety tool which drove me out of my convicted dormancy to a place where I can use Chinese torture techniques on some helpless readers. Even Genghis Khan must have done target practice on some sheep.

But most important was the time when I realized that this isnt a medium for dumping angst, but a bloody blank slate. This I believe might have been my most factual moment. Factual, because facts are always harder to digest than fiction.

Its a wonderful obligation to have upon myself that my mind has found an escape hatch for himself. He wanted to be free and I had been denying him the pleasure of freedom. But how does someone go about doing the listening business?

So my mind could speak with me. Now what? There was a moment of silence I had never experienced inside my head. I thought to myself, "thats all there is to it. its the ice breaker thats the most difficult to find." 

So the conversations began. Rounds after rounds of debate, agreement, silence, contemplation and finally focus. This gave way to a torrent of activity. I noticed that this was my unnecessary hurdle. I wrote not to my heart's content, but to my mind's breathe."