Confessions: At the Crossroads of Writing

I was curiously impatient to find a "voice" as I felt a burning desire to express myself in the world. I tirelessly sought for it within and without. My intuitions kept telling me something that I could not possibly stop pondering over. The message was overpowering and irresistible.

I knew I had the heart and head to go into writing though, for the most part, I felt rather shy and tongue-tied. A crowd of passions choked my throat, making me feel hugely terrible, yet they had not got readily shaped into articulate forms that could force themselves into the wide air. Inability to communicate eloquently was quite a suffocating experience, which drove me mad and melancholic.

Having hailed from a traditional farming community, I often listened to the unuttered voices of the green that said:

"O Farmer, scatter your seeds far and wide;
Let them breathe, sprout apace in ample space".

Those were highly touching lines that could invoke the spirit of the letter. That happened to create in me a state of prolonged cultural vision, and suddenly I came under the inescapable spell of an inevitable "second source", the psychic forces of a legendary, hard-working community that wanted itself known and heard in every corner of the world, and who believed what it did would never go unrecorded. I became the undeclared incumbent for promoting its publicity agenda, which was largely composed of unclear and irrational elements. Nonetheless, I was drawn into this mission involuntarily, and became its anointed spokesman. It was a phase of transition in me but it was a sort recognition as well.

I started writing more intentionally as I carried the seeds of rebellion in my bones. I tried to relate and relay the text and context of a profound human situation, previously unexplored. But it all turned out to be the work of trivial immaturity and inane imperfection. I felt I had really attempted nothing to merit a passable standard. That was rather too embarrassing. All my effusions seemed hopelessly silly and nothing worthwhile emanated from my constant musings. Clearly, that was not the fulfillment of my goal as I envisaged, or my ambition with sky as the limit. Sorry to say that it was the point of my horrid defeat. I was literally falling apart in sunken despair!

Time acted as my healer after my first set-back. I started to rebuild. It was a challenge for me but I did not hesitate to face it. "To strive to seek to find and not to yield", I remembered the lines of Lord Tennyson. I took it as my writing motto and described all my failings as a blessing in disguise. I felt inspired to continue. I was lucky as I thought. Then, out of the dark impossible, sprang the pang of new creation!