Melancholy, my forced mistress, with whom I am courting nearly for a decade, it has robbed me of all manly strength and drained me of vitality to shine. She is envious of everything I do and have taken the possession of my mind, not letting me do anything.
With her despotic wings, she has taken me to the depression island, her own dwelling place, and I am forced to court with her, as Homeric hero Odysseus was detained by Calypso a Greek mythical female creature for seven years, and was forced to court with her. I find no escape from her iron-fists, and she with a thunderbolt in her hands has the power to do anything, can ground all that comes her way. Life is rudderless and compass-less, and under the tyrannical government of her, it looks impossible to set my bearing to navigate into life to unfold its treasures.
When you have sex or the act of love with a partner whom you love at the climax of orgasm, there is a dance of hormones in your veins and capillaries that makes a symphony with the universe, and promises blissfulness and creativity. But what if you are sexing with an ogre, a witch or a vampire that sucks you all, and even a gaze at any of them makes the rush of small splinters of blades into your blood stream and these blades pierce you at cellular level. The act of mating, using no contraceptives, either forced or consensual yield babies. What if the babies are dread, fear, stress, anxiety, and despondence and so on --------------- of the same clan.
For years, I have been holding a strong yearning for writing. For the sole purpose of that I have left all my activities, my job, then teaching kids as home tutor, and made my place in a den surrounded with books and pages, many of them now are turned soiled. I turn pages after pages of notes that I have jotted down, rubbed the text of them on different note books with a hope that rubbing texts would cause a spark, as ancient man brought fire to us by rubbing stones. And I would use that spark to ignite the engine to set my locomotive on the course of writing.
Dwelling on Depression Island, where Melancholy reigns with a thunderbolt in her hand, with which she can do all that she wants. The soil of the Depression Island is soggy, and no seeds can sprout there, even the pages that have been turned soiled they too can't be used as compost to add fertility to the depression island and nor locomotive, for which I have spent years, can run. The foggy environment has blurred the vision. With a gloomy mood every step I take it seems that it would take me deeper into the quick sand. The remoteness of Depression Island has made me inaccessible to my friends except a group of five friends, whom I call with an air of love the "council of elders" because they are men superlative affluence and affluence both. They "five" were a continuous source of love and consolation throughout melancholic moments.
If I did something while stealing from Melancholy's gaze, I left every task in halfway as a squirrel that comes to guava tree in my home to eat fruit but after having few bites of one fruit it moves to another then to the next one leaving all unfinished. Whenever I selected any topic to write about. I always delved into deep research and finally found myself into rabbit-hole, I lost myself there in the dark walls of that rabbit-hole, coming out with empty hands and yielding nothing. How can one achieve his goals without resolving himself to commitment and determination? I was on a kind of terminal ailment of not making my way into writing. In desperate need of a remedy. But can the certain ingredients of commitment and determination be inoculated, can they be administered externally as medicines are to treat an ailment?
This always astonished me that from where all writings come? How do the writers smear beads of words onto the blank sheets? How do they add legs and spikes with words to make them walk as characters? I don't know where those immense stores of knowledge are located with which they plug themselves in to bring such beauteous pearls of wisdom that had transformed our world. It astonishes me how in the Hollywood movie Goodwill Hunting a janitor boy at MIT solves difficult mathematics problems anonymously, stunning the professor and students alike. "Writing is magic," Denzel Washington says to Vicellous Reon Shannon in the movie the Hurricane, made on the life of Rubin Carter, an African American boxer. And similarly, Jarred McGinnis a computer scientist unfolds the mysteries of writing at a Tedx Talk.
I have read plenty articles and some books on writing advice, but the writing to me always seemed an alien job. My efforts could never reach any fruitions, even when I am resolved to do anything, except writing. I don't know where this writing comes from. Masters say all creative works come improvised, they happen in serendipitous moments. But where is that muse and how can someone, like me, of thin capacities, grasp her?
Five days ago, I was sitting tired beaten up by the storm of thoughts. I succeeded, for a momentary period to switch myself away from that torrent of thoughts that was grounding me to death. I started listening to music and moving my pen swiftly and abruptly on pages. then out of the blue, some small dots, seemingly related and unrelated both, started appearing. I started spotting and linking dots with the tip of my pen and then this piece of writing came into being from non being. It was as I had had caught the muse.
I grasped the idea to share my failure of not succeeding to make my feet into the writing ground. I was listening to whispers of lady, she said "transcend this place my dear". I have come to liberate you from the clutches of melancholy. Who are you? "I asked". "I am Serendipity", she said in a polite tone. It was as if Hermes had come to liberate Odysseus from Calypso. I felt sighed, and relived. I continued linking dots, then came a rough skeleton out of dots. I took more time with Serendipity to fill the skeleton with flesh of words. In this way this piece of writing came into being from nonbeing.
I enjoy the company of Serendipity. She is the lady of immensely rich faculties. She has gifted many men with her treasures. I feel happy, liberated and blissful in her company. I can now have the joy of trotting my pen on pages like a Mongol soldier mounted on his horse back trotted his horse on the pony-express. I have caught the muse, I have caught the air, and I have caught the spark to ignite the engine of my locomotive. What she says is, "I live in the free moments of every man and woman, it's how do they catch me, I shall be at their service"