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583rd July

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  • husain4
    Jul 4, 2002
      MY 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.