Rant

It's been a really long time. I had resolved to write here more often, but failed to do so. The reason? My diary.

Most of my rants and whines are gobbled up by it. The rest is either shared with a select few, or chewed up by my mind. Just read the last two posts(the only posts), and to my surprise, I wasn't embarrassed! They still hold true!

Maybe it's because there hasn't been the required gap in between. A complete year ought to do the trick. I have no idea what I'm going to write over here. This was supposed to be an online diary, a virtual door to my soul. And also, a page to let out all the cheesy stuff. Seriously, you shouldn't use words like 'soul', 'dark', 'disturbing' etc. to describe yourself when you haven't even crossed the teenage years.

I've had a wonderful year in Arts, simply amazing. Relaxed, soothing, and carefree. It frightens me to no end. I'm still apprehensive, all of this seems like the great lull and calm before the storm.

Meh, I haven't got anything to say. If you have stumbled across this blog by accident, feel free to contact me. I'm getting bored, need somebody to irritate and annoy.

First Impressions

When you first meet me, be sure to keep an open mind. Don't go forming conclusions about what kind of a person I am by my behaviour. Although, that is the best way to judge a person during the first meet, it has yielded disastrous results for me. But I must add, that those results vanished as soon as the other person grew some brain to actually see me for what I am.

A confused soul.

This is not a self-gratifying post. I'm speaking from experience. The number of people who give me the 'freak' look! Now, I am a freak. But not that kind. More along the lines of a sensible maniac.

Yes, that's me. The sensible maniac. The mature lunatic.

Allow me to relate to you what happens during my first meeting with somebody, and pay close attention. For the next somebody could be you! 

What happens is, I greet you. I'm usually the first one to initiate a conversation, as I happen to be an extrovert. A basic extrovert(inside joke). We may chat politely and with feigned interest for a couple of minutes before I begin to claw through; if that sentence made any sense to you, bravo! You're probably confused. I crack a lame joke. A joke so incredibly lame, that anyone with a fiddle of sense can sense that it was done on purpose. Because nobody could be that splendid an idiot(believe me, I've had experiences with plenty of idiots and fools). But, as it happens, you take a step back. Sometimes, I've seen it happen literally. People stepping back. Anyway, so I crack that lame joke, the bane of any interested future interactions. And you cringe away. One might wonder why I don't control myself from doing so, why I don't keep it in. Because I want to be with people who understand sarcasm. Who can actually come back with an even lamer reply! But alas! That happens once in a blue moon. 

I may not necessarily repel you with a joke. Sometimes it may be a wonderfully phrased question. A question so stupid and useless, that any individual with basic knowledge of the art and science of sarcasm can understand for what it is. But is it so? No prizes for guessing, folks. I manage to repel again!

Although this terrifically supreme failed first impression proves harmful to my relationships with other humans, I find that it is kind of fun. I can't begin to tell you about the number of people who've been stunned by my sensible self. No, it isn't an exaggeration. The correct word is 'stunned'. They go,"You're this guy? But I thought that you were that guy!". That statement made no sense, but I'm hoping you get the gist. I should be offended by those kind of replies, but frankly, I love them. Simply love them! The virtual gaping expressions on their faces is priceless. It amuses me to no end.

Aaah, I've ranted and raved on about myself, but I think that's just living up to the name. Please note: I'm not a victim of narcissism. This is just me quilling down what I think. Hoping to dry-quill here more often. If this was the 'self-conscious' me, I'd beg for reviews. But, whatever! Leave them or not, doesn't matter. Just be careful while making an acquaintance with me, it doesn't always lead to friendship.

Insecure

I've been told by quite a few people, that I'm way too insecure. That I should be more confident, more stable in my thoughts and in my actions. I know that they're right. I know that I'm very wobbly when it comes to self-confidence, that I'm extremely self-conscious. I care what others think about me, what impressions they have of me, what my actions mean to them. It's stupid of me to think so, but I set store by such things. I make my own decisions, and they are not influenced by what image I think I'm projecting to the world. NO.

But I do care what others think of it. I care what others make of my behaviour and what opinion they have formed about me. Almost all the people I met are free from such shackles. They don't care. It's their life, whatever they do with it, it's their business. They don't care about what others think.

And all those people who said that to me, who advised me to stop thinking so much, to live my life without thinking about others, these people have unknowingly contributed to the recent decline in my self-esteem. If it had not been for those quiet moments that one shares with his own self, where there is no voice but your own, where nobody is there to nag you and judge you except you, I would have been lost. I don't know when I realized this, it might have been somewhere along the way when I tried to stop caring about others' opinions. It came to me suddenly, as if I'd known all along.

I'm an artist, and proud of it. Not the arrogant pride that most of my peers seem to have, but genuine heart-felt pride at myself. For being someone who creates art. Who weaves a portrait(however clumsy) out of a blank piece of paper, who composes poems that never existed, who gives life to still words. I am sure that anyone who has ever held a pencil or a pen or an instrument of art will relate with me. Insecurity, it's an occupational hazard. We make a living out of it. We are insecure because we're baring a piece of our soul to the world, not knowing what reaction it may produce, what recesses it may stir. And an artist's work is always a private affair.

It is visible to the public in its final form, complete. But what has happened before, from a blank piece of paper to the dance of colours on the canvas, that is known only by the artist. The struggle, the doubt, the frustration, feeling totally useless and helpless. These things are not known to them. And that is why I always feel let down, whenever somebody comments,'Hmmm... nice' on my work.

Bah, I'm not insecure. I'm an artist.