On What To Write

With a slight grudge, I admit I have secretly been trying to revive myself as a half-decent half-regular blogger, but every time I write something I develop grave doubts about the quality of stuff that comes out, just as I go to press the publish link. Now I am not the kind people associate with this word 'blogger', especially those who have only heard of it through news-channels or newspapers; I usually never have any solutions for combating terrorism, nor do I harbour any anti-establishment, angry-young-man sentiments of mentionable magnitudes. Singur plant stays or goes, I give a damn, Samjhauta Express runs or ceases to, and I give a damn. On the few occasions on which I've tried hard to become that archetypal blogger, the results have been no short of being terribly bombed documentaries. And then I don't really live a particularly jazzed up life either that I'd beat drum about. As a result of all of this, what usually comes out is a dismissive, self-deprecating account of how I must be a loser just because I am not exactly the winner. All talk of candour notwithstanding, writing truth - and that which matters, isn't my cup of tea either, I now believe. Whenever it comes to it, I tend to become overtly sentimental about trivial surrounding issues and downright maudlin if at all I ever get down to the crux, which I seldom do. This process of elimination of alternatives leaves me with only the option of writing to make fun both of people's eccentricities and normalities, my own biases ruling out the possibility of writing possibly educative stuff. Now when I make fun of others, I start feeling guilty. Actually, I start feeling guilty no matter what. Actually, I think I need to see a doctor. Actually, I had better leave.