Lately I have been posting write-ups which (though) are written by me I feel they are very distant from my heart. I started this blog with the hope that ten years down the line if I read it again I would be able to have an insight into my world. But my past days of laziness has murdered this objective and ramble 51 is being written in the hope of reviving the real essence of my blog.
I was thinking yesterday lying awake in my bed. It isn’t new for me that my most ingenious ideas (according to me) come to me in the hour of that very duration of temporary insomnia when I want to sleep but a dose of creative satisfaction would sing me a lullaby. Sorry that was quite lyrical. But what I mean is that it was in that hour when I really wanted to sleep but couldn’t, my eyes were drooping but I could hear myself protesting, I was torn between two choices; whether to sleep or to finally have an (‘chance’) encounter with the ghosts everybody keeps talking about.
Sorry my rambles are being taken too far like the caramel sugar in Master chef; in the end both become bitter, digressed and wasted. Coming back to that thought which led to me writing this post, that thought was quite the thought in my opinion (I often find myself awe struck by the divine capabilities of my earthly brain). I was thinking about why I do not like to share with other people, apart from the trust issues obviously. I realized that there is something else somewhere, a voice which keeps telling me rather nagging about how I am wasting my energy on something quite fallacious; of how I am ruining the mystery. The mystery that remained is my personality, the mystery that is my secrets, my experiences, and my story. It is quite like looking at the world’s most wonderful book and then ruining it by reading it. Yes, you might protest that you are only sharing the experience but I would say that by flipping the pages you have killed the excitement and this shall (eventually) just become another book on the shelf.
Another allusion I came up with would pique the interest of any of Potterhead readers. Remember Goblet of Fire, friends? Remember that golden snitch which screamed, my friends? Remember how Harry and the others tried to decode the mystery of the snitch. Remember how important the snitch had become? It occupied the four’s thoughts until the day of judgement. From a certain number of pages to certain other, the snitch was the mystery of the hour; that small ball had become so important. And then what happened to the snitch my friend? When J.K. Rowling decided it was time to decode the mystery, the snitch was dropped like a hot potato. It was forgotten, shoved to an old corner. No longer did Harry, Victor, Cedric, Fleur, the author or the reader care about that golden ball which was (just minutes ago) cajoling everybody’s attention.
The reason I feel unimportant after sharing is because you have caught me like they caught the ball and once you catch me it is game over. And I don’t want it to be GAME OVER because I want to play, I need to play. But you wouldn’t care because you would get another toy, another pal and I would be just another friend. So I had rather stay put with my mouth closed because if there is one thing we learned from Harry Potter it is that there are always more challenges.