- Jul 4, 2002MY BIRTH
Seeking a constant attempt on creating a story comprises of
my past few months, and yet the outcome being a failed, two-page muse
on what I thought, a visit to a remote land would be like. On
initially sending the story to a not very close friend, in fact some
one whom I was not very well acquainted with - except that he/she
knew of my intention to one day eventually write a full-length novel
emanated a reaction, that of indifference. Of course this would be
obvious when the person is a mere fleeting acquaintance and cares
little for those hours of the night in which one unsuccessfully
attempts to bare a piece of their mind. Mind you I'm not driving
towards an unrequited lovesickness here.
The reader, my acquaintance, acknowledged that he/she had
read little of the story and liked the narrative form of it, in
addition to the description of the trees and the hills and the river
so to speak. In other words he/she had failed to penetrate the story
at a deeper level, one for which it was actually intended to be in
the first place. I begin to despise this person, like I do a lot of
other people on short judgment. This is the molding of a writer, in
which an injured self-esteem is a pre-requisite to be able to write
that which can stab one in the mind, unless one wants to write of
elves and winged dragons, which can only succeed in putting one to
sleep, children to be more precise.
Incessant blows from several, make not only my life as a writer
difficult, but even my routine life - in which I operate in a banal
profession receives visible mistreatment. My creativity grows
poorer and I construct dark stories with hideous characters and
sinister actions, that which cannot be read or be taught (since a lot
of great writers are posthumously studied) by or to men of society.
The paragraphs dwindle dreadfully with an influx of pessimism. There
is an ever increasing urge and I'm able to write more but not
specific to what I wanted to, a few months ago. I begin carrying a
notepad with me, avidly penning down the sometimes base and other
times callous words of my definition of subsistence. Men appear
abhorrent to me, women, repugnant and children insane. I walk past
the streets, and onlookers seem to stare at my face or at the back of
my head, out of spite. In reality they are only shrouded with
mystery. I know this and I know it all well. Now merely living in and
out of moods, my stories seem to chain to a common theme.
An existentialist is born.