The block which I was referring to is a very real thing and I find myself with a head full of swirling ideas and random sentences but when it comes to actually putting something down, its blank canvas time. Its damned hard, this writing business, even when you are doing it just for yourself, really.
It sort of begins with a book. Now normally, and most people who know me will attest to this, I am an enthusiastic reader. Give me a book and I am happy. Don't need anything else. So its quite rare that I fail to finish a book I have started reading. There were a few that I couldn't because I was visiting and the book stayed put and once when I started Pride and Prejudice only to fall asleep every few pages. The book I am talking about is Shantaram, which happened to fall into my hands a long time ago. Its been a long time since May 2006 but I have only gone so far as 44 pages.
There is not one single reason I can pinpoint and I certainly can't say that it is sleep inducing in the Jane Austen way. It happens so many times when you are studying - when two hours pass by and you realize that you are 'reading' the same page while spaced out among distracting thoughts. Something along those lines, but not quite the same. Whenever I have picked up the book, I just end up lost on my own journey of memory interspersed with episodes of imagination.
Sentiment - how much of it is foolish emotion and when is it too much. What moves me to preserve an old chocolate wrapper that is rightfully garbage to the untrained eye but to me is all that remains of a tearful goodbye. Old restaurant bills that would be torn up and discarded are carefully preserved chronologically in envelopes because they represented some wonderful meals spent among careless laughter and the warmth of good company. But should I keep aside a book, unread, because it reminds me of a past that, rightfully belongs in the past. One that is painfully close to the horizon, when one more step forward will make it disappear, lost to the inexorable forward march of time.
I suppose not. Plus, there is a certain satisfaction to be had when the final chapter ends and the back cover closes upon the last page.
It sort of begins with a book. Now normally, and most people who know me will attest to this, I am an enthusiastic reader. Give me a book and I am happy. Don't need anything else. So its quite rare that I fail to finish a book I have started reading. There were a few that I couldn't because I was visiting and the book stayed put and once when I started Pride and Prejudice only to fall asleep every few pages. The book I am talking about is Shantaram, which happened to fall into my hands a long time ago. Its been a long time since May 2006 but I have only gone so far as 44 pages.
There is not one single reason I can pinpoint and I certainly can't say that it is sleep inducing in the Jane Austen way. It happens so many times when you are studying - when two hours pass by and you realize that you are 'reading' the same page while spaced out among distracting thoughts. Something along those lines, but not quite the same. Whenever I have picked up the book, I just end up lost on my own journey of memory interspersed with episodes of imagination.
Sentiment - how much of it is foolish emotion and when is it too much. What moves me to preserve an old chocolate wrapper that is rightfully garbage to the untrained eye but to me is all that remains of a tearful goodbye. Old restaurant bills that would be torn up and discarded are carefully preserved chronologically in envelopes because they represented some wonderful meals spent among careless laughter and the warmth of good company. But should I keep aside a book, unread, because it reminds me of a past that, rightfully belongs in the past. One that is painfully close to the horizon, when one more step forward will make it disappear, lost to the inexorable forward march of time.
I suppose not. Plus, there is a certain satisfaction to be had when the final chapter ends and the back cover closes upon the last page.
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