It was Friday, I was kind of happy, I always felt happy on Fridays, because the week was getting over, and because I still remained just enough sad to understand my sadness that wanted Saturday and Sunday to quickly precede another week. No seriously, I need answers, I am not doomed, and I am not given that. I sometimes did not understand if it was better to be rejected all together before dating or it was better to be at loss after losing some pride and self-respect. Did I agree? I say of course, I got succored into Fridays and rejected by Sundays, you now, now you will ask who needs a drink…

I realize the vagaries in my writing are too hard to stay abreast with. In retrospection, even I wonder what caused my mind to throw the words in a manner that it did. Yes, I want the audience and I want them to understand what I am saying, but I cannot let it be just obvious, I cannot just utter my belief with plain conviction because I do not want my readers to be sure about what I am saying. It seems I leave my readers with semi-digestible sentences and pieces of French fries dipped in ketchup sauce here and there—The paragraph above this one was just an example of it, if this is the first post someone has stumbled upon—shmuck-y, albeit from me!! (As if I am a king addressing his kingdom).

But my readers are Intelligent, it is assumed, I want to take the poetic license—I need it, I have said this way too often that I don’t mind diverting the audience to a warm sandwich instead of continuing with the next few words (lines, have you stopped?). I have been very well praised sometimes and I feed on that (sorry for being too honest), and I have been chastised and scorned (another adjective that needs revision) —by people who are close to me. “I do not like what you write, you have to stop writing about yourself and start writing something that people can connect with”—were the words of a woman I am addicted (revise please) to presently—I still maintain the same, why don’t you rather go and eat the sandwich? And then, there was another woman who told me that some of my expositions (common do you even know the meaning of that)—were like reading comprehension passages from CAT exam (damn I should have teed with that animal) —she made me laugh, but I couldn’t agree with her, still, and so I rant.

The longwinded and Hawaiian-dress kinds of sentences are here to stay, too bad, and I am going to crowd the web with this kind of loitering at least for sometime (I guess till I don’t completely degenerate, or till the woman of my life asks me to stop for the sake of continuation of the relationship). It isn’t about people getting bored, it is about whether audience really thinks that they have the time to spend on a page from which they might practically take nothing, yet stop by because it (the page) reflects something. I really don’t care if you are not used to watching “butterfly effect” kind of film, neither do I care if you are used to reading too much of structured writing. We all should continue doing what we like till there is at least one person in this world who stands by you—I have lots more than one, and I have every reason to sleep with that fact with my underwear off in the night.

I am not here to talk about a 450 pound guy who is still a virgin, but I will talk about him and even write a book about his life and his feelings if I change my mind, and it can still be made interesting (mind the use of “I” in the sentences again and again, I use it intentionally to create a sense of hatred towards me, the obnoxious I, I am, aren’t I?). A blogger or an author has to be father of the church where personal emotions and the characters are getting married, not everybody is as gifted as Gabriel Garcia. We all fake it till we make it, don’t we? Or in Dexter’s words—we all have a dark side. But that is not possible for few, lots of us cannot lose ourselves, the whole affair is not to get an external joy that is based on pretense, but (at least for me) to reach a level of emotional catharsis which matches with that of the audience. Most of the people try to strike a balance, which is what life is about (they will tell you), it is about balancing our external and internal needs. So we end up with motley, colors of which doesn’t even belong to us or matter to us lot of times.

Creativity in writing world is sometimes confused with being complex, the flowery prose (like the one I use most of the times) which runs for years before hitting a period, the convoluted metaphors, the sentences which are strung together in a very tight memory lane—forgetting any of the one will lead to a series of misunderstandings—is not our definition of success as writers. But if you remember, we all start working our way through complexities while we read too, we like it when more is said in less, and when less is more sometimes, don’t we all smile inside our minds when that happens in our favorite books? Isn’t Jazz complicated? Isn’t learning any art complicated? The beauty is always there, sometimes it has to be unearthed, and the effort required to so on part of both the producers and the observers is worth it. We have no right to question readers’ intelligence, and if somebody wants to keep it very simple, then he/she should write science textbooks instead of science fiction.

I hope I made my point this time at least.

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The second woman I was referring to earlier still reads my essays (at least I think so) and I don’t think she reads them out of some obligation that she has to fulfill. She must think it is ok to have a style that can never be free from disconnected references and over-usage of metaphors, and she must be connecting—case closed.