Having written about a 100 something posts, you would think it would get easier. Just think the thoughts and the words will type themselves into something resembling a readable piece. You know others who do it. Of course, that does not happen. To you, that is.
Much as you'd like the blog to simply be a place for your thoughts, the random ideas that float in to your head and a landing pad for the times when ennui brings you crashing down, you are coherent enough to realize that you have expectations of yourself. That, having read good books by great writers, you would at least want to try to take a few tottering steps toward quality writing. You think about the number of drafts you've deleted because they did not have 'it' when you read & re-read them. Right there, the little guy with the sneering voice points out the mediocre ones that have made it past the 'publish post' point & you begin to wonder whether you would recognise quality writing if it waltzed in & punched you on the jaw. Just thinking about that makes you weary & pine for a pint (and more) in the right company.
You want to write about how nice the weekend has been. About the sheer brilliance of making it home without sweating for a change. About wolfing down dinner & heading over to a pal's on your bike. About how riding the bike is effortless because you are the only one who knows how to coax the best out of her, gently. About how you can ride at speed with a joy that threatens to spill over from your chest because you KNOW every dip, curve and pothole on the road. About how the night wind whips through your hair, seemingly celebrating with you. About how the VAT 69 on the rocks goes down oh so agreeably. As does the next one. And the next. About how you have your first night of unbroken sleep in ages. And how the breakfast at a non-descript spot in a nook of Deccan Gymkhana requires nothing more than a sigh.
You want to make the description of a cricket game in the evening read well, let the reader live each moment in your shoes. You want to write about the whispers of the evening breeze & a late summer evening blue sky that envelops you in a gladness for just being there in that moment. You yearn to paint a written picture of the sheer pleasantness of a swim at dusk followed by a piping hot, spicy meal. About how the night lulls you to slumber.
It amuses you in that typically twisted way that Sunday shimmers and disappears. That Sunday evening is a celebration of Nature coming to the party. That the very air seems to remind you that you don't live in Pune any more. You even smirk because the thought comes unbidden - maybe you wouldn't notice the sunset if you did live here. Then your shoulders drop... perhaps because that thought has hit too close to home.
You can 'see' yourself stumbling along sleepily on Monday morning. To leave.
But, even after a 100 posts, you find yourself unable to say it well.
And you wonder why.
Song for the moment: Don't speak - No Doubt