Let the nowhere come to you

For days, even weeks and quite possibly months, I have been trying to get to a place. A place where I can just sit and stare into the vastness of terra firma. Just look at a lot of land in front of me. Not to be worried about the harshness of sun above or the hardness of rock below. No purpose, no obvious reason but just to be by myself.

The act of getting to this nowhere is infinitely hard. You need to get out at the right time, deal with the traffic and drive for possibly hours. You rush through all of these just to defeat the whole purpose. Getting to nowhere isn't supposed to be rushed or purposeful. It isn't supposed to be hard or time bound. You just arrive at some place by pure chance and just be there. But the whole idea becomes something about a purpose and following a procedure. By the time you do get somewhere it has become an activity that has tired you out and can't really enjoy the emptiness of it all.

It is a bit like the lack of clarity of thought. You're always trying to get to an idea rather than letting it come to you. A mind full of thoughts can't be empty enough for bliss to pour in. Achieving this, to me is the lightness of being.

Oh, My Word!!!

I have never quite understood the point of writing in very complex language. What’s the point of something if it can’t be understood by the person it is meant for? For me success of writing lies in mass appeal. No one really has the patience and time to pick up a dictionary after reading 10 words in a line. If someone had that much time, he might as well start deciphering hieroglyphics. Alright, don’t pick up a dictionary just yet. Hieroglyphics just refers to ancient Egyptian symbol script. I don’t know who came up such a word. Sounds more like a very indecent and improper sexual proposition.

I am not what you call an avid reader. I have these moments of inspiration, and in these moments, I can read just about anything at an amazing pace. I finished all four Twilight novels in 4 sittings of 8 hours each. And stop right there, I am not a teenage girl. I was having those moments I just talked about and had nothing better to do.

This is not what you call a special gift, but whatever reading I have done is mostly simple and elegant English. Even when I could read Hindi (can’t anymore, not a proud thing for an Indian), I never ventured into complex compositions. Those things simply put me off. Hardest thing I have ever read is Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead and a few pages of Sulman Rushdie. Sulman Rushdie for some reason didn’t make any sense. It was like reading a sentence backwards. Fountainhead was an altogether different story. At first it was even worse; it was like reading the whole book backwards. But then after a while things started making sense. Although my interest in fountainhead had nothing to do with the language, it was simply compelling content.

Just to paint the picture of difference, imagine American war on terror in Afghanistan. The difference is like carpet bombing and laser guided missile technology. Sure missile guided systems, like complex language, is precise, accurate and well, boring. Ask any 7 year old kid. Carpet bombing is infinitely more spectacular in destruction and absolutely terrorizing in its approach and that’s the kind of approach one should follow with language. The writing should leave behind such a trail in its wake that reader, for love of his live, shouldn’t be able to forget it and complex language just doesn’t solve that purpose.