Ctrl+A, Delete.

Are you one of those who feel it’s one arduous task to write? Not because your mind is devoid of ideas, au contraire your mind is brimming with ideas. Now you won’t be immodest enough to go to the extent of calling each idea a brilliant one, but each deserves to find its ink-equivalent meet the paper. Or the Notepad on your laptop, if that’s your thing.
After a rigorous process of selection, you finally have a decent idea to ramble on. I say “ramble” because – you know it – you have a lot to say. (Don’t you always do?) Every idea in your head is played out to such intricate detail, such clarity that a short vignette won’t do. YOU. NEED. TO. RAMBLE.
So you set off on your quest to try (sigh) and explain to your reader the thought/idea in your funny little brain. You start off by writing the first sentence of what is set to be an overly loquacious piece of writing.
You pause. Hmm. Something doesn’t seem right, does it? You decide that that one word in the sentence could find a replacement and make the whole sentence sound better. You replace it. But that tinge of dissatisfaction lingers. You shake it off and move on. You write the second sentence and when you read the two together, the horror of your own creation strikes and you hit Ctrl+A followed by Delete.

You chide yourself, asking how you can possibly engage with your audience with a start to an article so feeble!?

An hour – or seven ‘Ctrl+A, Delete’s – later, you find yourself no further than where you were when you began.

On the days when you identify with this article, calm yourself, and convince yourself, that the objective of language is not to write beautifully, per se. That is secondary. The primary objective is – and will always remain -,to communicate; get your ideas across. So as long you can paint a word picture in your reader’s mind, you’re fine. Don’t go “Ctrl+A, Delete”. Just write the next sentence, and the next …and go on.


The incomplete chapter

It was my fault; it had always been. And I say this without the slightest tinge of sarcasm.

I loved you way too much. Every part of me yearned for you. My soul needed you more than my mind wanted you.

And in that maddening, overwhelming love that I was drowning in, I failed to realise that loving someone and consciously making an effort to get them had a big difference.

I admit that I was too passive; waiting for a miracle to happen that would make you mine.

I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Wasting those beautiful windy days indoors. I’m sorry for being caught up in my own quest for elusive greatness.

I’m sorry for showing you glimpses of what we could have been and never turning imagination into reality. I’m sorry, I truly am.

Though I wonder, was I ever worthy of winning your heart? For you were the sky, and I, the sea. And no matter how tumultuous the sea is in all its desperation, however high the waves be, it can never touch the sky.

And if I am to get another chance, I promise I’ll do all the right things. Talk among dimly lit fireflies, wander aimlessly on the streets at night, greet you with bacon and cheese on Sunday mornings and read you your favourite fiction on Friday evenings.

We’ll dance in the rain, run against the wind, and bathe in the sunlight. If I am to get another chance, I’ll grab your hand and never let it go. Maybe someday, the sea will meet the sky at the end of the horizon; at infinity.

You are the incomplete chapter in my life. I wonder, if I do get to finish it, will my life have any significance anymore?