09/08/2016 by Siddiqui Fayesal
Although, I don’t really know what exactly is so awesome/beneficial about this, but this is the closest word I remembered for this.
Journal Entry Eight was a year ago.
Journal Entry Seven was almost 2 years ago.
Thankfully, Journal Entry Six was just just 5 days before Seven.
So, in a nutshell, I’ve got 3 entries in 3 years.
Serendipity, my ass.
Let me take a moment to marvel at the audaciousness of this situation.
Moment taken. Audacity marvelled at.
I yearn to write, and I do. Only thing is that I lack a certain amount of discipline of going around it. I write, at times, poetry; then I write random book reviews for my book review blog (shameless plug); or, I update my blog, here or finally, when I get some sort of a brainwave, I write in my notebooks which, in some unfathomable future, might end up being my first book.
I have made great plans. Good lord, you should peek inside my head. It’s awesome. I’ve written epics and have the capacity to wrote some more. I have written my best poetry, my best romantic scene and my cliffhanger of a novel, all inside the confines of my head.
At best, it’s a good plan.
No execution. No hard-work.
Okay, I’ll give myself some credit. Recently, I went to Kasol for a writing getaway and wrote 12,000 words in 4 days. It was fabulous. The words, like consistent drippings of an IV kept n coming. I wrote and wrote and wrote. But once I was back. I felt a bit like what Poe spoke about in The Raven.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
For the next 2 months I wrote absolutely NOTHING! Not a word that would constitute a fragment of that perennially incomplete book. I have forever tried to follow the golden advocation of writing everyday. I swear it must be in one of these last seven Journal Entries too. I just can’t. My motivation level crashes down to zero the moment it realises that the potential for it to go higher has come. Something goes wrong. My mood is off the trajectory and it all goes downhill.
I know I’m repeating myself here, but I spent way too much time planning what I should do instead of actually doing it. Even today, when I came across Journal Entry Eight and realised it was a year old, I had promised myself to write a poem along with Number Nine. But, where is the poem, eh?
Yes! It’s inside my head, and what a rhythmic beauty it possesses; it twirls like those Dervishes and smacks of romance as sung by Operas. Outside of my head it sounds a little like… I can’t come up with a smart enough metaphor.