Blur
The desire to become a writer is stronger than ever.
So is the struggle to write.
Squeezing in time every day amidst the busy routine is a herculean feat. Overcoming writer’s block and putting a few words down on paper seems harder than that.
I hear aspiring writers talk in terms of numbers — three thousand words a day, twenty hours a week, a few hundred pages a month, etc. I don’t know my metrics. I don’t know where I stand or where I am headed. There are days when I write 500 words in an hour. And days when I write none. The mood swings. So does the uncertainty looming over my head.
We are all part of the universe. A universe that moves and behaves strangely. We are forced to move with it, to exist; to survive.
When we sit down to write, life doesn’t pause and sit next to us. It goes on; Sometimes, at an insane pace. And renders us mere observers. We wonder if we are within or outside this whirlpool. There are bills to pay, meals to prepare, errands to run, chores to complete, people to please, and pains to heal. All of these are rotating around us. We are the axes. It appears like they are staring at us in unison. They seem to be asking, “How can this human keep scribbling on a sheet of paper when a million things are waiting to go wrong?”
As the glares get stronger, I strike a deal. I tell my troubles that the more they torment me, the more I will write about them. I make them the central characters in my story. I give them personalities and imaginary names. I let them seep into my chapter and mouth cheesy dialogues. I let them unleash their viciousness. I let them live their dreams. The fictional and real worlds merge in my head. I no longer see the lines alienating the two. The black and white around me are replaced by faint shades of colors.
I may still not write 3000 words in a day. But, I don’t have to wait for words to emerge. I have stopped thinking in terms of letters and words. I see pictures now. Bright and clear.
I consider myself a Polaroid camera. One that captures the world around in absolute candor. My eyelids release the shutter; my eyes see the extra-ordinary amidst the ordinary. There are no filters. I develop the image slowly and gently, careful enough not to distort the pixels. I carry the image around in my head for a long time; because these are not standalone pictures. They are all intertwined. Every image tells the story of the people who are part of it and of those who chose not to be in the frame. The alive cannot exist without the dead or the missing.
Some days, the people and the scenes emerge from the picture and play their part in the open. I have also seen these characters and moments go back into the image silently and shut themselves out. I let them be.
The Polaroid camera does not have a selfie mode. I see myself through the eyes of my characters. It is a symbiotic relationship, one where the lines between us are blurred. The blur is as much a part of us as we are a part of it.
