In Continuum.

To Begin, To Begin

"Writing biography is a paradoxical enterprise, at once solitary and communal."

--- Penelope Niven

So, with the first sentence I wrote in my spanking new notebook, I tore that very same page out. My horrid handwriting single-handed ruined it. There goes one blank page into the dustbin, but at least I am keeping the rest - I hope. That must have been the perfectionist in me, but I learned to keep him at bay while writing my very first entry at the same old cafe three bus stops away from my place. Trips like that to the cafe have become somewhat of a regular activity for me, and people-watching has become an interest of sorts. No, don't call me a stalker. I do not follow them home or do not have a target in particular, or both. I know denial is the first rule in the stalker books, but this is what I like to call 'People-watching', 'People-observing', whatever! This is essential field work as a writer and I am determined to carry on as long as I am not detected.

Anyway, as I sat at the table I wonder just how many more of such days would I get at the cafe, relaxed and agitated all at once. Agitated, because of the way people look at me and how uncomfortable I feel under the scrutiny of the public. Relaxed, because writing about my agitation makes me feel that way. I understand how the last sentence might have felt contradictory but I am a man of both symmetry and balance, and there can never be happy without sadness, love without hate and in this case - Relaxation without agitation. I am sorry if this paragraph and the one before might have sounded a little eccentric, but I just watched Kevin Kline as Otto in A Fish Called Wanda. Funniest movie may I add. Again.

I've been against the idea of a journal for the longest time ever. But I woke up one fine morning with an idea, or a craving to be more accurate. I wanted to be able to touch my writings, to feel it under my fingers and in my own handwriting, even if it is horrendous and indecipherable. To be honest, I am sick of seeing my words in Times New Roman or Arial. It's not like I am going to quit blogging anytime soon because I still stand by the fact that it is way faster to type than to write. In fact, I took almost forty-five minutes just to write three pages in my new notebook. But anyway, as I start writing and allowed my thoughts to flow like the tap left on by the careless man, I found out that there isn't anybody out there who is going to read what I have to write. What freedom! What liberty! What a sense of release!

So release I did, upon the paper in black ink. In the best possible handwriting, I started with the words "To begin...", and was stuck. It's like a man out of prison, or a man fired from the job that he dedicated his life to for thirty years. You don't expect him to step out of his usual restrictions and say "I know what to do with my life". With this new found freedom, there was a lingering sense of responsibility and obligation when I am pouring my thoughts. A self-censorship you might want to call it. But to hell with doubts and fears on the pages of my new notebook, because other than Dear Diary and Your's Truly, nobody is ever going to read the contents unless given the consent. And if anybody shall ponder over the indecipherable words that I have written, may his private part turn blue and drop off.

And so, after the comma at the back of the words 'To begin', everything was rather smooth sailing. It felt like driving down a straight road for a hundred miles with your eyes closed and dreaming about Las Vegas. It's not like I have done that before but, with a little bit of imagination and innocence, it is possible to conjure such thoughts I'm sure. I wrote whatever I wanted to write, some a little sensitive for the public eyes while others a little more friendly I am sure. For the latter category, I am going to elaborate and reproduce them here on the blog. As for the former, they shall stay on the pages in black ink. Because we all have secrets, and secrets make us all powerful and mysterious.

I like the look of the words. The way they look so messy and yet so orderly at the same time. It's good that Ahmad and I chose a book with lines, because I cannot imagine one with blank pages. You might have turn it ninety degrees just to write some of the crooked sentences, you never know. But whatever it is, it always feels good to find a new avenue to vent your anger, to release your frustrations and to unhinge your sadness. Because whatever goes on in the notebook stays in the notebook, and that's as good as it gets.

To be honest, I am not certain how long this habit of mine is going to last, or the neatness of the words I write. I hope I'm not going to jot some random phone number in the blank spaces of this book or something as preposterous as that. In the meantime, I am going to thoroughly enjoy my time with my very real, very tangible, and very exclusive diary of mine. I still love you my dear blog, it's just that the diary is the new pet.

So raise the champagne glasses high above your shoulders, and say Cheers!, to more private entries to come. Like I said before, blog entries aren't worth anything if you get famous. But words on pages, that is where the money is. But that's just wistful thinking. Ignore me. Now, to the next entry!

"The man who writes about himself and his own time, is the only man who writes about all people and about all time."

--- George Bernard Shaw