Of wants.

I wanted pretty lilacs and orchids I

Could sway away in lakes but

You wanted big red roses with

Thorns that paint my hands

In the colours of deep crimson reds.

I wanted exquisite nets, and chiffons

And silks, but you

Like polyesters and cottons and threads

Entwined with golds and beads in steps.

I wanted a dark maroon, or a

Beautiful mauve, yet you gave me

Peaches and lime and a kind of

Green I could never really explain.

I wanted grapes and mangoes

We could eat on a hot summer’s day but

You gave me melons

And pears that were far too big for

My fragile hands to hold and share.

When I wanted you, and solely you

You gave me everything else instead.

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.