Recently, I was stuck to my bed for almost three weeks. My doctor specifically ordered me to cut back on the time I spent in front of the computer, that my healing process would get a quantum boost if I stayed away from it completely. I agreed wholeheartedly. I didn’t give his recommendation much thought. I could check mails on my cellular device, browse news and read books on my tablet, and listen to my favourite songs on a music player. I had everything figured out. Right? Wrong!
Why, you might ask?
The answer is I am a writer, and I spend a large chunk of my day time and even nights either scribbling in my notebook or adding new chapters to my current literary endeavour. I didn’t realise I’d promised something which was simply incomprehensible. The first day turned out to be difficult. I somehow resisted touching my computer. I gave it frequent questioning glances and glares, as if seeking its permission. But all I saw was my doctor’s stern face.
The urge to type in few sentences grew over the next few days. Once again I curbed that desire like an obedient child. Things started getting out of hands by the end of first week. My thoughts started gallivanting … to places and events I’d experienced in the past. They reached out to some amazing imagery; my school church, dozens of picnics, visits to the hospitals and gurdwaras, and hundreds of get-togethers’ I’d had with friends and family.
I recounted innumerable stories I’d been narrated on solo trips to faraway places, recalled forgotten people, reminisced monuments which had triggered cosmic and historical queries at that point in time. This juxtaposition of intriguing and vivid pictorial presentations created a trail of cerebrations which rapidly evolved and turned into a fiery ball. It spun in my head for a long time. Gradually, people, places and events filtered from this illuminating globe, and aligned itself into a ribbon of interesting, colourful sequence of phenomena.
I realised I was actually churning out stories. Idle and with my movement restricted, the adrenaline rose to my brain which dictated words and sentences, characters and scenes. However, there was no way I could pen down or convert them into digital data. Remember, I was not supposed to. I wished there was a way to convert these brain signals, these impulses, into written material. It was just a wishful thinking. I was in turmoil. I knew these stories would be forgotten within hours and their sequence would make little sense later. But I couldn’t do anything about it.
And I was right!
Today, I am back in front of the computer, but the stories no longer oblige me. I tried to gather those priceless figments and somehow line them up to create interesting narratives. But it didn’t happen. The stories were lost – lost within the complex layers of my brain, in the form of neurons. But then, who reads neurons?
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