Skip to main content

Desultory Posts

Blogging has become an intellectual and emotional challenge for most without them even realizing it. The  power to make your voice heard unhindered (generally) is often overwhelming enough to make many of us sit up and take notice...of what we have to offer.

 

Do we really have anything worthy of a web page of disclosures? I reckon the answer is in the affirmative for most, but we dare not make a clean breast of everything (well, almost everything) lest what is construed as innocuous by us be bilious for others. Autobiographies, the trophies of people who are convinced they are really important to others, have the luxury of time. Looking back in retrospect, it's easy to know how events turned up and people fared. And you generally couldn't possibly write anything that could invite the ire of those mentioned in your book - since some of them are dead, some wouldn't even know they're mentioned, some would have mellowed with age and some couldn't care less. Moreover, if you've actually found a publisher for your tell-all book, you're probably already too well known not to be pardoned for even the most shocking of revelations. Bertrand Russell meticulously mentioned in his autobiography his first kiss. It was with the house maid. He wanted to proceed further, but the maid would have none of it! Had he been a blogger, such disclosures (before attaining fame as the greatest thinker of the 20th century) would have been highly improbable.

 

Blogs usually don't have the luxury of time. People could be lunging at you for the silliest of reasons. Having faced the hazard, I've had to forcefully take to desultory posts just to keep off potentially awkward situations. However, that hardly leaves me with anything interesting to write...except for the tonnes of events from the distant past that have somehow survived my dismal memory. When I look within for completely unobjectionable substance, it's all hollow. That left me wondering - do we generally have something or the other to hide from others? How comfortable would I be if I were to prop my blog with personal secrets even if I were granted immunity against repercussions? Very uncomfortable! Most people, if I may think so, would feel the same way. Does that make us all imposters, pretending (at a certain level) to be what we are not?

 

What's written, isn't worth it. What isn't, mustn't. What an irony!

Comments

Anonymous said…
Atlast, a post that set me thinking! I want more of these from you.
Deepanjan said…
At last, a comment that praised me! I want more of this from everyone!

The post was only a fillip as I was starving for content.
Anonymous said…
Some of the greatest inventions happened due to a starving stomach.
Some of the greatest posts happen due to a starving mind.

Popular posts from this blog

This is what Bertrand Russell said about religion...

Religion is based, I think, primarily and mainly upon fear. It is partly the terror of the unknown and partly, as I have said, the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes. ... A good world needs knowledge, kindliness, and courage; it does not need a regretful hankering after the past or a fettering of the free intelligence by the words uttered long ago by ignorant men.

The year that was

I'm wearing a rather striking shirt, one that makes me feel like a clown fooling around in a graveyard. Roving eyes latch on to me and make me too conscious of myself. Checkered in red, grey, black and maroon, I've excused myself into donning it and looking silly for two reasons. It's Friday and…more importantly, the last working day of the year. Tailored half-a-year back, I never had the courage to wear it, not until today. It's that time of the year when it's time to reflect on the events that transpired. Last year ended on the worst possible note. Dad had expired and I was numb with shock. The repercussions rippled halfway thought this year. Things were so abysmal initially that I had lost the will to live. Acrid in everything I did, I was immensely angered by time phlegmatically flowing through its cadence. It was as if Dad meant nothing to anybody. What right did people have to live the way they always had when Dad was no more? Why was much of the world still