As the nightfall of blogging closes in on me, I am more inclined to exhaling in private than gasping online, more willing to navigate through the bushes and backwaters than honking in the perpetual crescendo of the world wide web.
The Internet of Things has taken over, but I am the prodigal come home to fountain pen and paper. I began with fancy stuff like Moleskine notepads but soon switched to cheap, blank foolscaps before I broke into margins of the morning newspaper. Sometimes, I write haikus on recession in the intervening space to disgrace a tycoon. Sometimes I foist a caricature of a leader and cover the hollow in his head with hair. It is oftener that I mourn and thunder over women raped and murdered. I am a man repossessed with a skill that is inking its way to a miniature landfill.
Having run out of bureaus, I have been slipping sheets of prose under wardrobes and dewans, rolling them into props to support money plants who keep sagging nevertheless —I guess absence of money is the key there, and stacking the rest in half-open transoms where pigeons come to lay eggs. I split the pages at random before I do that, and tend to put them in a gunny bag and swing about in circles to let the laws of gravity and motion take control alongside destiny. I trust when they come upon the verbiage after a globally warmed century, assuming rogue nations didn’t nuke out this country, the puzzle alone will keep my place among the likes of Mitchell and Atwood. Yes, you read that right —the luminaries locking away their opera for a century have got, how does one put it, a bugbear on hand?
I have never cared for the genre of the confabulations I cook, or paused to measure the length of the sentence in meters, never counted the accents or words before they have hatched, never weighed the rise and fall of syllables, uttered and muttered. Words to me are like clouds —cirrus, stratus and cumulus. They appear out of nowhere like cobwebs in the mind and stay put, or stir ever so lightly, gentler than a zephyr; they boom and darken as they loom or vanish; they pause and precipitate, and they pour and stop abruptly. And since there is no control over what is conspiring in or tumbling out of my skull, the dough in charge of mathematics is in a welter of dyscalculia. No amount of provocation will induce me into counting the jumble of letters transferred to white spaces.
Indeed, that is where I lost the Da Vinci code of the web space. Blogging has morphed into a punishing science, far from being a consuming quest for scribblers. Quality has fallen off the bridge of evolution; numbers have grown limbs, organs and vertebrae. Words, keywords, links, backlinks, metadata, AdSense.
Hence the premature retreat from the deepening Matrix, implying there is a high chance you will never know what snippets and journals, stories and novels, poems and verses I might have leaked on pieces of wooden pulp. And that, there is a higher chance you will never know what I have proffered to the cumulative consciousness of termites, creepers and pigeons.
Nor will I.