26/01/2016 by Siddiqui Fayesal
I don’t usually text or call people up and wish them a happy new year. I’m one of those uptight guys who doesn’t celebrate anything. Apart from football, perhaps. Even that is rare, to be honest. I think the most recent football match I saw was around 2 months ago. And I don’t remember the one I saw before that.
I’m not a person who celebrates much to be honest; at least not by the usual parameters. I stay away from birthdays; mine as well as others. I try staying away from marriages as far as possible. I feel uncomfortable if people come up and congratulate me if I cleared an exam.
This brings me to the crux of this post.
The Gregorian calendar’s New Year.
The recently concluded 2015. It’s a bench mark of sorts for people who make up resolutions and what not and promise themselves that they’ll be good the coming year. It’s like Santa Claus all over again. Since people grow out of their age old beliefs regarding the jolly old man in a red suit riding a reindeer, they try and lie to themselves.
Ok. I’m perhaps being a bit harsh here.
Perhaps it’s alright to peg one’s self over something that might work as a benefit. I tried it myself. You know, trying to make promises and to dos and lists and resolutions and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah…
It didn’t help.
Most people look over their backs and promise themselves that the next year would be better; that they’ll exercise more often and eat right and not flirt with the wrong kinds and not abuse people over the internet and so on and so forth. I do too. Every year even I promise myself (while my inner voice called me a hypocrite) that I’ll write more regularly, that I’ll sleep on time, that I’ll wake up on time, that I’ll be stricter when it came to discipline and that I’ll do everything right instead of doing everything wrong.
It never worked.
2014 was a much better year if I talk about my writing. 2015 was a killer if I compare it regarding my reading. I read a total of 34 books, not counting short stories, while the tally was around 20 in 2014.
But writing was my bane this year. I didn’t even attain half my target. I fell short. Way short.
I know I’m talking numbers when I should be talking abstracts and metaphors and other bullshit. But, guess what, 2015 was a terrible year. There’s no scope for looking at the near future with rosy glasses. It was so bad that I didn’t even find the bloody motivation to put up the ready-made WordPress announcement regarding the statistics of my blog.
The fact that it isn’t worthy for public display is a different story. My statistics sucks. I had fewer hits, fewer feed-backs and I didn’t write as many short stories as I would’ve liked.
The point though is this: An arbitrary deadline, a socially accepted boundary or a self inflicted target is of no use if it doesn’t kick me enough to wake up and do it. No matter what targets I give myself. No matter what to dos I make and what promises I make to myself in the sane hours that reside between heavenly oblivion and lethargic depression I will NOT get things done if I’m procrastinating. It just won’t happen.
I went to the library today to write a few letters and returned home by 1800 hours. I had almost 5 full hours in which I could go play a lot of Half-life and even write a couple of things that I have prepared in my diary.
Instead, I watched Matrix Reloaded. It would have been okay if it that was what I really wanted to do. It wasn’t.
With a slight headache and the weight of guilt deepening I dragged myself to bed. I was depressed that I couldn’t achieve what I wanted to; that another Sunday went down the drain. I had laid myself on my bed and was preparing myself to tell my other self a new set of lies to calm my guilt ridden pit.
I already had a few pointers in my head. I would tell myself that it wasn’t a good time to write because it wasn’t ‘coming to me automatically’ and that because it wasn’t automatic it wouldn’t be ‘good’ and that there was a full day public holiday on the 26th of January to be utilised anyway so it wasn’t so bad.
I was good at this because I’ve been feeding myself this kind of shit for years. I kept telling myself lies and kept believing it.
I did something extra ordinary the next minute.
I willed myself to get up, walk to the bathroom and wash my sleep away. Switch on my computer and put my ass in the chair and do this.
I wrote this.
It started on a melancholy note but it picked up. My procrastinating self sensed an achievement and my mood brightened. It wasn’t as dark and morbid. My thoughts, instead of being grey and black turned red and yellow. I’ll probably be having a better, if not longer, sleep than what I had initially planned.
No resolutions for me this year. I’m keeping it real.