I’m a stressed one right now

This is probably my most real and closer to reality post yet. I mean if you knew me personally, and you read all my posts, there’s a big chance that you couldn’t figure out any connection between my life and my posts.

They are more philosophical, more like the ideas my brain makes up. And it’s not like I’m discussing them with anyone, so yeah the blog me and the me me would probably be poles apart.

The thing is I know it’s like normal to stress over exams, very normal. But my finals are two months away and I’m just stressing like an idiot. It would have been better if I actually got something out of all this stress; all I’m doing is pretty much looking at my books and going “oh my god what am I gonna do.”

That’s it. That’s literally it.

Okay, so all us writers know very well about writers block, and I think  I’m having a “study block” kind of moment. Except it’s lasting for more than a moment, and I am loosing valuable time I could use to mug up?!!

Sorry for a very awfully written rant, but some things really do need to get out my system. Maybe more posts like these will follow, maybe not. Who knows anything anyway.

If I actually pass and get good grades, I am giving you all a party. A virtual party.

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Of successes and failures.

Writing is my love. Each syllable, each paragraph, each essay has been nothing but pure enjoyment. For years now, I have watched a beautiful process through my eyes , my ink making cursive patterns on paper in the dim lights, at the quite of night, evolving into words I eventually tweak at some places, resulting in either a piece I am proud of or I eventually tear.

I have always loved writing, but I recognised it as a passion only in second grade. We were to write an essay on ‘my mother’, a very unoriginal and common topic during the time. I remember writing an unusually long and good essay for a second grader. The teacher liked it so much that she passed it on to many other English teachers of my school, and I was a star at school that day. When my mother read it, she was extremely happy and told about it to everyone who would hear (just one of those embarrassing things that parents do). That was my first success as a writer, my best one, the one I remember most vividly.

When there is success, there is failure too. I was in seventh grade (or was it sixth?) and was required to make a speech on good habits. I prepared the speech one day in advance, considering it to be reasonably good. I was in for a rude shock, when everybody complained that my speech was too ‘simple’ and more ‘complicated’ words were expected of me (yes, someone actually said that to me). “I write for myself”, I proclaimed arrogantly at home. It was true. Every good piece has given me an inner sense of achievement. The poems, the articles, the various thoughts and emotions I myself invented. My words have been alive for me. I have formed them, and I have given them meaning.

But can I say, that now, after so many years, I only do write for myself? A few years ago, I was content with showing my writing to a few close people. Eventually, I became unhappy with myself. What do I write for? Does anyone care about MY words specifically? I knew the answer already. Nobody will ever miss my writing the way I do. People will read it, smile, appreciate and then forget.

One of the many reasons I started this blog was that I want to be motivated to write more, to write better and to be consistent. This, however, gradually becomes hard for me, as proved by experiences in the past.  I am hoping that writing here at WordPress, accepting the criticism of this community and working towards eliminating it, will heal the dissatisfaction embedded deep inside of me.

People still don’t care about my words, but I am working on it. I hope that through this blog, my opinion and my words will matter again, to other people, but most importantly to me.

I do not know how consistent I’ll be with this blog. I do not know how efficiently I can manage my school work and this blog. I do not know if I’ll ever have any loyal followers. But I will try, and hope, and steadily go ahead.

I sometimes wished I had kept a copy of that essay from second grade, or of that disastrous speech, my first success and my first real failure. Many more will come, but these will be my favourites. My first battle scars.