He sighed, yet another incomplete story, another one that will bite the dust he thought, the thought strangely not touching him or making him feel anything. He was used to this pattern by now, this mood of complacency that made sure that he could reach any further within and light the stream that would open his heart and narrate another unlikely tale. He was short circuiting himself too much, backing off too often and giving up too easily. He was looking too much at words, repetitions, feels and mannerisms and he knew it, but there was nothing that he could do about it, he knew that he was getting stuck to a formula and letting that conceptuality trap him, he relied no longer on spontaneity and thought too much about how other people would receive and take his style. He worried not much about what they thought, but with all the self promotion that he did he felt the need to back it up, and that led him more and more to create blunt portraits, that had all the right twists and turns, but no character, or maybe he was judging himself too harshly. The external life mirrors the inner he thought or was it otherwise, he felt stuck too often. And the worst part of it all was that he had no one else to blame, he knew that the fault was all entirely his, he knew he should have made a practice of seeking that inner calm and spark and letting the words guide him instead of otherwise, too often he let the words that he desired to speak be cast in a form that would draw attention to his personal skill, but they hardly mattered to him, they never did, he had always worked in secret, he wrote because sometimes he could not stay silent and things longed to be spoken or narrated through him in ways that he could never understand, thoughts came to him, tales opened their unspoken voices to him beseeching him to be their narrator, but this rich inner world he ignored, rather seeking solace in how everyone else seemed to go about this same craft of writing. He worried too much about standards, quality, about what other people assumed a writer should be. He feared labeling himself a writer, since from an early age, things had always seemed that whatever he assumed with pride and self assertion turned out to be major fails and failures, all those years he had longed to call himself something, to merely draw away the unwarranted attention that often surrounded him because of his eccentric ideas and unlikely appeal. He tried to shy away, but the grip grew stronger, and as he yielded he lost his voice, voices that once praised and held him high became the masters of what was to be said and done, he started to lose his way, he began doubting his own abilities and his pride often was too severe on him and made sure to provoke him over and over, within time, these self attacks had learned to express themselves as his attempts at self depreciation and nurse his wounded pride, he never wanted to draw the spotlight to himself, he only wished that if the spotlight did shine on his corner that he should be man enough to not shy away from the challenge and rise up to meet it with honor and the confidence that he felt was always a component of his character despite all the major blunders of the past where he felt he was misrepresented or not yet a bloom that felt that inner calm and fire. But he scarcely understood how his voice worked, sure he could write, he compiled loads of average stuff merely from a particular feel that an emotion, a song, a sight, an experience or a scene gave out, he could flesh it out with considerable skill, but they often felt like stealing, he had always been proud enough of his own unique method and style. But as he started learning and drawing inspiration, which he felt was an essential component to his craft, too often their dominance showed in what he attempted to personify or bring about, since he had an acute fear of truly expressing his meek voice in fear of being judged as meager or weak, he hid it behind flamboyant styles, and a sparkling sense of energy. He had always possessed energy, vigor and a vitality, but being a sensitive soul, he was often subjected to energies that were beyond his understanding that if one seriously investigates could in time master, but it was only too late that he realized these abilities, he had always been a late bloomer, the last person to react, the first person to be misunderstood and the one who always surprised people since too often people thought not much of him. He was very silent, and he tended to shy away from attention, not that he did not like people or company, on the contrary he loved them all, but he knew not how to stand and be silent, since he felt too much in their midst’s, he felt their pain, he felt their characters, he felt their vain displays of attitude that too often confused and threw him off base, but he felt people, too many negative experiences had convinced him enough of his total lack of skill in socializing and hence he withdrew, deeper and deeper into a shell where he communed with a sense of rebelliousness that filled more his heart with anger and spite, things that helped him since he was too often the odd man out. Nourished by popular notions of being the odd man out, which he had been all his life, he learnt to concentrate more on his inner life, and he did so, he constantly tried to be absorbed in the ‘motion and process of being’. But he wanted more, he had always wanted to be able to say something, and he longed to say it in a way that would get people’s attention, not to glorify his apparent talent but to bring to focus aspects that are too often lost in the way people perceive and receive outward and inward processes. Even in his writings he often made the most unassuming aspect the chief of all detail, it was his style, no doubt it emanated from his own life experiences of being an outsider, but he knew that he was talking something real, people were lost in their commonly held notions, once in a while it did good to have someone come along and make them go ‘hmm’. But the magnitude of the task troubled him immensely, could he do it, he felt that he was showcasing these skills in order to bring glory to his maker for whom he had the utmost respect. But unconsciously he invited demons that were more than happy to ridicule his temperament and his leanings, these demons fed on his own apparent modesty and tended to make him look more at what people were much better at, were they not the real thing…? they mocked him , and he being the meek moon child that he was, gulped it all down, for all his skills of self analysis and his total lack of any pretenses, he fell time and time again because he judged himself the harshest, he always brought more attention to his own mistakes, and this in time had brought unwitting companions of the writer’s nest of discontent to the forefront as they savaged his mind and tried time and time again to take his mind away from the treasures that his soul had to offer. But in the process they had obliterated to an extreme the paths through which these silent messengers travelled in order to speak a particular message. But as much as he relied on his mind, he was to an extreme paranoid of his own mind, of his own thoughts, of his own sense of reality, constantly suspicious if he was sane enough to sound like he understood whatever came out of him or whatever happened when another person was touched or felt something due to him. He knew life, more than knowing he could say that he understood the aspects of life that never changed, and they bored in him a deep pit of desolateness and futility, things that bothered him the most were pushed into that hole and when he was happy about some sense of accomplishment or success over overcoming this world’s fixed nature, memories would be drawn out from this pit that had become a well and discontent would be cast and planted all over again. It was taking too long a time , this whole process of self doubt, of recovery and ultimately transcendence. But things happened at times, and one of them was Love, the first love, a torrid affair that left a mark on the memory, the second one, an eternal one where he met for the nth time his true friend and Father, Jesus. He was wary of his Father in a way, because he loved his Father as much as He loved him, but he knew his nature, he knew that he would mess things up so that he would not be given some sense of responsibility, he knew that he would mess things up because he felt that he was not worthy, and he knew that he would spoil things because never in his life had he felt complete, never in his life had he walked into a crowd and been man enough to look everyone squarely in the eye and smile, Never, never in his life had he felt naturally inclined to be liked, he was always the last to be acknowledged, too often even when people did like him, he figured that they were more drawn to the personality that he had created rather than to take the effort to understand and know him. And that was what he had wanted, understanding, knowing that someone would stand by him, but he had failed miserably in that as well, and that wound festered anger and rage in him, did he deserve it even, he thought, he knew that he was not flawless and that he was not perfect, but never in his right mind would he do something in order to break somebody. Because he knew the pain, not because of things that happened to him, because he knew how people never spoke of their pain, he understood, that was one reason why he loved people from his heart, because he knew how easy it was to break a person’s heart in the most improbable ways, but the past , the recent past was undoing all that he had no trouble doing so far, the wound had dissociated him enough to long even more for something that would take him higher, he thirsted and prayed with all his might, he prayed to not ask GOD to free him from his Hell, he prayed because he knew that there were other people like that suffering, he realized then how foolish he had been to not know about this kind of intense pain before, sure he had helped a lot of people in his life, helped them in any way he could, but this pain that he often succumbed to was different, it felt more severe and savage, and he had seen people with that kind of pain before, and he realized how tough life was for a lot of people out there who were running after money, love and affection. It was hard for him to look at times beyond his own pain, but he was too tired of being stuck in a position where he could not budge from, he had always thrived on an emotion that set him free in the most unlikely of methods. He referred to it as the intuitive personal method, but for a long time now, all his methods had failed, failed in such an epic miserable fashion that he felt if he had anything in him that was under his will. Not that he longed for power or control, but he wanted to feel the warmth of knowing that something in his life was of his own making and was willing to be there even after he had with confidence spoken about it or boasted about it. He knew GOD had blessed him, he had an amazing family, but he avoided them, he loved them, but he avoided them since he could not be the son they ideally would want him to be, and it was tough.
To say that he was complicated would be an understatement, but it drove him, but he still felt a complete lack of sincerity and passion towards anything at this stage in his life, or maybe he felt that way because the mood of complacency was blinding his eyes in order to confuse and stroke his inner weaknesses again. But he hardly knew truth from lies anymore, everything seemed to be a lie of some sort, there was no connection, there was no nothing… It was all meaningless and he was getting sick and tired of it all…..!