Thejus Kartha

My taste in music is weird. Many people share the same opinion, but it just doesn’t appeal to me that way. This may be my narcissism talking, as I begin to realize that there is a strange pleasure in keeping my weird tastes intact and people writing me off as a non-conventional personality. I can take off my earphones now.
They call it the ‘writer’s block’. This utterly demotivating instance happens to me either when confronted with a magnitude of feelings and ideas that the grey matter in me refuses to cooperate to the heavy brute-force brain-racking that seems imminent, or when it is plain blank. Most people do talk about the block when they encounter the latter, which makes me feel that I tend to be lazy with respect to quality brain-time expenditure. The fact remains that I am scared- scared that I might hit the dumps if I start to go through my attic. The constituents of that are very intense, it is just like, “If I’d stare too long, I’d probably break down and cry.”
This is an inevitable part of life, I get to think countless times. Rummaging through the colonies of memories that expand as you go deeper, slowly splashing things back into great colour, and an instance later, it is as if yesterday came looking for its reunion with a long lost comrade. Stimulation that leads to such crevices in reality- I call it a crevice in reality as it may never happen again and is gone with the wind, leaving you with artifacts that end up in your mind space that, if gazed upon, takes you wondering and drowning you in fantasy- could be found in as simple as the playlist in your phone. I am not bothering to trouble the reader with the numbness I get to experience if I am left in front of an old cupboard of mine – because I am simply not capable of it. I may also go to the extent of warning those who hide their feelings in the most perfect of ways imaginable to them: Tread with extreme caution. It need not be the artifacts of war or tragedy that shake the entire foundations of the stories you try to darken out.
It takes me a while to get into Hyderabad. Thiruvarur has left a huge space, I try to fill it with words to make both ends meet. Words get wasted like drops in the ocean; crevices exist, large enough to drag me into it and make me meander. I try to make phone calls, and try to go looking for missing pieces. What do I know? It is a mistake I commit innumerable times, but never learn anything from. I can tell you that there is a certain pleasure to this pain that keeps me searching for more, like a frequent reveler who ran out of opium.
This writer’s block has me constricted well, and this has occurred as the editor contacted me a few days ago asking to ‘conjure something up’ for the next edition of Echo that was about to take off. For the traveller, this is quite comparable to the feeling of being chained up in a cell, and through the bars, he sees the roads he mastered, the people he smiled to, the hot sun he hitchhiked in, the roofs that sheltered him, the food that he ate, and what not. I dare not be explaining anymore, as I have reached my threshold again, and “If I’d stare too long, I’ll probably break down and cry”.
Keeping my cupboards and attics locked up, I have to muster more courage and venture into Hyderabad, or more precisely, Sangareddy. Mind you, IIT Hyderabad is far off from the city. This should make a good starting point. I really should start embracing this place. The dhaba nearby seems like a good place to start. The next time, I will have the block overcome.