Writing

I am not a writer.

I am not a writer.

I am not a writer.

Writing has subtlety, attention to detail, covers all the bases, says all in just few words.

My writing does not have that.

My writing does not move, it does not inspire. There are no lingering traces of enduring philosophy that stick the landing.

My writing is not even for me. My writing does not apply to anything, it is not inspired by anyone. It is the resistance offered by a mind in perpetual blockade, always 'on the learn'. Life is its own on-the-job training. No T.S Eliots or Harold Blooms would thankfully ever be able to subject what I write to their own rational order of critical analysis. A disjointed assortment of verbosity is perhaps in itself wrong on many counts, considering it being at the mercy of those not having acquired the verbal arsenal of The Oxford Reading Circle series of books quite prematurely, and who certainly have not wasted away the long hours of the night in the grueling childhood practice of dictation of words, if it even qualifies as such, and not as brutal torture.  

I am not a Tolkien, to devote my entire life to the creation of an alternate world, where there is a restoration of order, after a multitude of chaos. I wager I am not so grossly idyllic a man of faith to be fashioning a Heaven out of Hell just yet. That is for love to do, and as far as I can tell, I am comfortable in dabbling when it is at its most horribly convenient.   

 I am not a Bukowski,  to be finding himself wearied by the existential struggle to survive in a cutthroat world. I do not have the luxury of incorporating just the well-suited swear word to aptly communicate any of this or that gritty reality, and that too, in poetry: a form most characterized by sophisticated expression. I guess I do not approve of cutting throats, where there already seems to be plenty of trouble in breathing.

I am not a Marx, to be starting grand movements by dint of a single sentence. Politics is conflict by definition and necessitates the solution to the world's problems is for there to be even more problems. Radical ideology is the red flag best set aside now, lest it delude the idiot of 'building back better' any more than it already has. Yet, the same idiot continues to be moved by elaborate fantasy, which presents itself with its own fair share of career opportunities. So it is the great tragedy of time which has pens put to paper, fingers to the keyboard (or to the screen) and yet The Tyranny of Mewling Infants continues to prevail. The real world keeps getting even more real, than to be shedding its realness in place of what it wants to be. Yet, those who are real enough to say they want what everyone should, become the idiots. Then they gather their own brand of idiot and in the end, only end up adding to the real. Paradoxical, and yet it works. Like Nature itself, with its many exceptions to the rule.

Simply put, I am not a writer. In my defense, I did say it. I hope this was indeed a waste of your time, idiot. Run along now. Reality calls.