Marchin’ On

*breathes out*
Wow. I have missed this. 
Not even the talking thing we do, where you don’t see me and I don’t see you but I jabber away into the Internet verse and you hear and nod and secretly think I’m an idiot, but just… this. The typing, at my end. The silence in my room and my head, punctuated only by the click-click-click of the buttons. This writing down of words and thoughts and feelings, this quenching of a strange thirst, this organic communication link that forms between me, and the lines, and the words, and those scuttling, incessant thoughts- and you. 
How are you?
How was your February? Did the midget-month help you be more productive, more informed, happily busy and busily happy? Did it bring you romance and heart-warming smiles in the form of a rose-scented Valentine? Did it bring, for those of my Kolkata friends, a whiff of new pages, freshly minted and chock-filled with grand stories and crazy adventures and whispering new people? Did it bring warm afternoons melted butterscotch into blue skies and the cold sharp taste of watered-down Cola? I hope it did- one of these things, or none of these things, but still happiness and memories and one step closer to achieving your goals, parcelled in some way or another. 
(Somewhat like this)

I have to admit, I’ve been kind of scared to get back.
I spent so long away from here- although, now I come to think of it, it actually wasn’t very long, just about three weeks- that I was afraid that when I did come back, you’d look at me with a smirk, and a toss of your head, and move on. I was afraid that you’d think- what a loser, can’t even keep her own words, and walk away. I was afraid of sitting blankly in front of a blank screen, unable to form a word, unable to write a sentence, feeling wretched and dark, with shadows of my former demons snaking their gnarled fingers up my spine. I was afraid of so many things that I was afraid, in short, to write- for you and for me. 
I don’t really know what it is that finally gathered in my heart- something like sustenance, and warmth, and believe in myself- something I like to call, maybe, at the risk of sounding silly- courage. And so I took up the metaphorical pen and began to write again, sharp at 9 pm on this Sunday night, feeling safe, ready to face myself again. The thoughts are no longer crowding in. The shadows are no longer flitting like swallows across a summer sky, I can write, again- crystal, clear, lucid, flowing cleanly like a dammed-up brook gurgling through a wood. I am happy, I think. I have faced myself, taken hold of a skein and set about the laborious, frightening task of untangling my own thoughts, and I’m doing it, I’m doing it. The Minotaur hasn’t caught up yet, or, I think, for the hundredth time in a dance that I shall face for the rest of my life, I have slayed him, and nearly found my way out. 
There is a rather tricky point I’d like to make here. (I’ve mentioned it before, but reaffirming it seems like a good idea.) For some time- these last three weeks, really- I’ve been feeling like my blog was wrested out of my hands, away from me. Like it wasn’t me anymore, it wasn’t mine anymore. It was terrifying, and bleak. I was worrying about things I’d never worried about before- how many people will see this? Why don’t I have more people visiting? Why do others have more people, more visits? Why can’t I get them? What should I do more, which aspect of myself and my habits do I change to get the same results as them? 
I am not saying I would not like my work to be recognised, read, appreciated by a larger audience- which writer wouldn’t? But I have decided that those alien worries, those scary, vitriolic, humiliating questions that kept eating away at me- they do not matter. Not to me. Not anymore. This blog- it is my baby. It’s… where I come to be safe. I can’t turn it into something else- I can’t even use it for anything else. I’ve known it in my heart all along- but it took this period of serious soul-crisis to bring it home. 
So screw all of that. Screw numbers and ratings, and most of all, most importantly- screw monetising. This isn’t a pawn to be sold out- it’s a place where you and I, all of us, come to be happy- to lose ourselves amongst the vines of lines, stories, poetry, TV shows, books, and all those other frivolous make-believe living on imagination and thriving in madness, that we love. And this is what it will always be. 
(This is also why some entries I planned- about charged political issues- will not appear here, except when I have formulated exactly what I have to say about these, when I’m clear that it is my own ideas I am writing, formulated in intellectual independence, and not my harried conscience parroting others’ beliefs. I thought I would, because everyone does and so I felt like I should, but now I’m saying it- screw narrow fractious ideas of truth based on biased ideology. I no longer pretend to agree.)
Pretty much. 

Wow. That felt good to say out loud. (Sort of. I mean, it was loud only in my head, but still.)
So back to some of the promises I made earlier in the year: 
1)  About Bjorn: If you have no idea what I’m talking about, first of all, SHAME ON YOU. Secondly, in January I wrote a post where I mentioned the C’est la vie Summer Project, a thing I just started this year, and this first year it is going to be a serialised story about the Tales of  a six year old boy called Bjorn Bjorg, and his best friend, Tiger.
(You can tell that I’m a fan of Calvin and Hobbes if you look very, very carefully.)
 Bjorn is still going strong- I just finished writing the fifth chapter- and it is still going up, just a month later: in June, rather than in May. This highly unprofessional delay has been caused partly due to the fact that I am, well me: a gigantic awkward 19 year old bumbling about in the alleys of professionalism and writing trying to find her way, and partly because I discovered that my end-semester exams will be taking place in May. I have absolutely no difficulty in predicting that I will fail everything if I Journey with Bjorn to his world, then. 
2) About blogging twice a week: I still hope to turn this resolution into a reality, although it has proved to be immensely difficult so far. March, I have higher hopes for you. I will do my best to turn up every Wednesday and Saturday, even if it means, like, dancing a jig to Uptown Funk or something when I’m absolutely out of ideas and time. 
(I’d avoid that particular post, though, if I were you. Therapy is expensive.)
So long, Ogygians of the net-verse. See you on Wednesday. *blows kisses*

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