[Enter Scene]
Writer: Hi, I'm Usman and I've forgotten how to write.
Crowd: Hello Usman! Let's talk about this so we can delve in to whatever's holding you back.
Writer: I'm writing again! Fuck this.
[End Scene]
It seems that God or White Jesus has put a plug in the overflowing drain in my brain that previously had words gushing out in spurts. Now I can't even get a good metaphor for describing this block. Not only, I can't even put a consistent flow of words together in business management assignments. Come on, man! All it takes for that is stringing words like "Critical", "Flow", "Process" and "Team" together to get something going. It can't be that a semester of constrained funds forcibly causing me into writing papers for money for my language-handicapped friends and dumbing it down enough to make it look like they actually wrote it was enough to crack the foundations of my love, personal expression! But who am I kidding, I can't even imagine doing that job anymore.
So something did crack in the past few years resulting in an abyss of unfinished and incoherent entries in this very blog that were never published. I'm writing this in the vague hopes of discovering what came up the rabbit hole that put a bullet in the writer's head. See! I totally borrowed that from the new Stallone movie, probably as a result of viewing the trailer a billion times before I play any song on Youtube. Makes me wish I was still in Pakistan, in the Land of the Pure and Ad-less Youtube. No, not really. Apparently the whole of Youtube took a cue from their advertisements and decided, like thousands of other Pakistanis cleaning car windshields in Greece, to scamper. I do miss it though. The family, friends, domestic help and even the rain and its predictable cousin, No-Lights. I'm wondering if that's the reason I can't write anymore. Maybe, it's the absence of my muse, HH (no, the wrestler has 3 Hs) who does't seem to remember me anymore. Maybe it's the MSc I'm doing in Business Systems Analysis and Design that caused my brain into rewiring itself for a more technical discipline. Maybe it's the pressure of finding a job after the end of it. Maybe it's the parental threat on getting me married the minute I get back. Or maybe it's just me being stupid and immature.
So now we're talking about maturity? The idea of it has long haunted me. I think my mind stopped growing after I hit 18. Hell, my entire head did. I don't think any guy likes getting asked for their ID when they're buying cigarettes when they're 27 years old. I'm 27, for fuck's sake. Give me my goddamn smokes!
So anyway, maturity is an ideal that's long eluded the likes of me. I think about it sometimes, what it is and how I should go about attaining it. Maybe the process involves not writing about stupid things at 3:44 am on a Sunday night. And then reading articles on Jack the Ripper operating around Whitechapel (my current address!), a hundred and twenty five years ago til it's 4:08. And then continuing to write about maturity!
I think Lars and the Real Girl had it kinda right when they say it's when "you don't jerk people around, you know, and you don't cheat on your woman, and you take care of your family, you know, and you admit when you're wrong, or you try to, anyways." I have a long way to go til I get there but at least with this definition, I still get to keep my Superman socks when I do. And in order to get to that, I should definitely call it a night and try to get some sleep before I wake up tomorrow and start my research into internships for the summer.
[Enter Scene]
Crowd: But we never really got into why you stopped writing!
Writer: Yeah, but in the hopes of continuing to write around it.
(crowd kicks writer out of the room)
[End Scene]
Writer: Hi, I'm Usman and I've forgotten how to write.
Crowd: Hello Usman! Let's talk about this so we can delve in to whatever's holding you back.
Writer: I'm writing again! Fuck this.
[End Scene]
It seems that God or White Jesus has put a plug in the overflowing drain in my brain that previously had words gushing out in spurts. Now I can't even get a good metaphor for describing this block. Not only, I can't even put a consistent flow of words together in business management assignments. Come on, man! All it takes for that is stringing words like "Critical", "Flow", "Process" and "Team" together to get something going. It can't be that a semester of constrained funds forcibly causing me into writing papers for money for my language-handicapped friends and dumbing it down enough to make it look like they actually wrote it was enough to crack the foundations of my love, personal expression! But who am I kidding, I can't even imagine doing that job anymore.
So something did crack in the past few years resulting in an abyss of unfinished and incoherent entries in this very blog that were never published. I'm writing this in the vague hopes of discovering what came up the rabbit hole that put a bullet in the writer's head. See! I totally borrowed that from the new Stallone movie, probably as a result of viewing the trailer a billion times before I play any song on Youtube. Makes me wish I was still in Pakistan, in the Land of the Pure and Ad-less Youtube. No, not really. Apparently the whole of Youtube took a cue from their advertisements and decided, like thousands of other Pakistanis cleaning car windshields in Greece, to scamper. I do miss it though. The family, friends, domestic help and even the rain and its predictable cousin, No-Lights. I'm wondering if that's the reason I can't write anymore. Maybe, it's the absence of my muse, HH (no, the wrestler has 3 Hs) who does't seem to remember me anymore. Maybe it's the MSc I'm doing in Business Systems Analysis and Design that caused my brain into rewiring itself for a more technical discipline. Maybe it's the pressure of finding a job after the end of it. Maybe it's the parental threat on getting me married the minute I get back. Or maybe it's just me being stupid and immature.
So now we're talking about maturity? The idea of it has long haunted me. I think my mind stopped growing after I hit 18. Hell, my entire head did. I don't think any guy likes getting asked for their ID when they're buying cigarettes when they're 27 years old. I'm 27, for fuck's sake. Give me my goddamn smokes!
So anyway, maturity is an ideal that's long eluded the likes of me. I think about it sometimes, what it is and how I should go about attaining it. Maybe the process involves not writing about stupid things at 3:44 am on a Sunday night. And then reading articles on Jack the Ripper operating around Whitechapel (my current address!), a hundred and twenty five years ago til it's 4:08. And then continuing to write about maturity!
I think Lars and the Real Girl had it kinda right when they say it's when "you don't jerk people around, you know, and you don't cheat on your woman, and you take care of your family, you know, and you admit when you're wrong, or you try to, anyways." I have a long way to go til I get there but at least with this definition, I still get to keep my Superman socks when I do. And in order to get to that, I should definitely call it a night and try to get some sleep before I wake up tomorrow and start my research into internships for the summer.
[Enter Scene]
Crowd: But we never really got into why you stopped writing!
Writer: Yeah, but in the hopes of continuing to write around it.
(crowd kicks writer out of the room)
[End Scene]
Don't be such a UK...nuff said!!!
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