A PaRADiGm ShiFT: of second chances and a second inspiration...

Repetition predisposes to redundancy; redundancy being an inevitable harbinger of ennui. While I am typing this, I might give an impression of savouring the opulence of an epidemic vocabulary, which is one of the pre-requisites of good writing … surely, not the only one.  On the highest rung of this ladder sits an idea. An idea that can flirt with your intellect, preoccupy your mind, divorce you from the infiltrating chunks of a hassled living and take you to the altar, constructing a spectacular piece, which is the product of this wedlock and can wow the audience. The conception of an idea is a craft that needs to be effortless. There is no perfect idea as such because the effortlessness lies in entertaining it into the expanse of your mind with its imperfections and frailties. And yet, the ‘idea’ happens to be the centrepiece of a creation.

You know you need to step down and step aside from the ‘inked’ pedestal if your pen fails to dramatize the unheard and the unseen. You know you need to seek retreat in the valleys if the bloom of your ‘idea’ ceases to flourish in the meadows. All this because it is the fragrance that entices a visitor… not the embellished carpet of flowers over the paddock! And when you are suffering from a dearth of ideas… falling back into a self-woven spiral of narcissism because concocting a new aroma feels like a far cry… you know you need to sprint back and drink from a fresh spring the waters of novelty.

Life’s not a dress rehearsal… it is, in fact, too short to repeat the colours of beads in your necklace.  Here was a moment of epiphany for me during a soul-talk with one of my favourite people on the planet, which, all of a sudden, engulfed the tides I was supposed to waltz with. Not because my waltz would be any less mesmerizing. But because the shores were too familiar and the harbours would treat me like their foster-child! Yes, I was now homeless… distraught… and insecure. Nevertheless, what appeared to be threatening me like a quagmire, turned out to be a deck of freedom. Freedom from an old school of thought. Freedom from a tight-roped walk. Freedom from a convincingly unconvinced voice of redemption. What I am learning is invaluable: it is sometimes alright to play a destitute. A destitute without the liabilities of possessions. A destitute who wanders in the valley of retreat… aspiring for second chances and a second inspiration from the mystic morning dew... in search of that ‘elusive’ spring whose elixir will satiate the parched throat of her pen and ignite a paradigm shift.

AND THE SEARCH CONTINUES…