Is it me? Am i always asking this to myself?
Just a few minutes back changed the setting on my KDE browser Konqueror to make this blog the 'starting page'. The earlier one was the Google search page. Why? Just to get assured: yes it is me, i am there, yes, here it is. Why the hell so much i am preoccupied with myself? Lack of self-esteem? Maybe?
All these years, whenever anything bad or good happened with me, has it not been the guiding thing anywhere, oh, this is me, this is how i react in a context like this? This going-on-observing has given me something, i think, when i depict a thought process, it seems, this practice vests it with a kind of authenticity. But, by the same sleight of hand, it takes away anything that may even suggest of any spontaneity.
Many years back, on a train journey, i read the autobiography of Ingmar Bergman, 'Magic Lanterns'. I was so startled to discover he was actually writing something that i thought within myself for so many years: a microsecond lag working everywhere?
I feel so jealous to everyone that reacts spontaneously. I cannot be ever like that? Or, maybe, their spontaneity is a mythology too, maybe a bit more all-pervasive one, such that she herself/himself is knowing herself/himself as spontaneous? The myth-making is so complete.
A writer writes his writings. And when he writes about himself: the blankness that is self: without any context, that becomes a non-rectilinear array of scattered letters. Letters that build up words ... paras ... texts ... myth ... reality. And, at times these letters were in letters, mails, missives. Letters that he wrote to the others. But where are the others, except in his own head? In all these scattered letters he tries to write his self, himself.
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