Talking about what I wrote a couple of years ago reminds me of something else that I had a couple of years ago (aside from motivation, ambition, and happiness) - a notebook. I must have something like five entries in it, but it's still an integral part of me. The story of how I got it is a brief one. Essentially, when I read Huxley's Those Barren Leaves and Point Counterpoint, I was struck by the thought of ideas. More specifically, a "novel of ideas", as one of the characters mentions. If memory serves, both books have characters who keep diaries where they muse on philosophical ideas, and, being the impressionable young waif that I am, I thought that I too ought to do something like this. For a period of time, I was convinced that this was going to work, that I would actually have these great ideas and put them to words, and have them written down and safe for all of time.

Unfortunately, it didn't work.

Why? I don't quite know. Perhaps I'm so out of touch with the art of writing that I simply cannot do it anymore; then again, there is the fact that I was not able to come up with any great ideas in the first place. No ideas implies no writing. Once I realized this, I thought I might include some fictional writing, the sort a budding writer might have. That failed too, unfortunately. If memory serves, I came up with one poem and one short story, neither of them making much sense at all.

The whole thing sounds like a colossal failure, and in a sense, I suppose it was. But the idea, the principle, they are really strong even till today. The mere fact that I pursued something like that is remarkable, considering how lazy I am, and how inert I am in pursuing any goals or dreams. That much is immortalized in my memory. Yet when I think about it, in a sense this blog has become that notebook; this is exactly the kind of thing I would have liked to have written there, except that for some reason it didn't work back then. Sure, the mere fact that this is an digital format makes it lose that quaint charm that the notebook has, but I think my former self would be pleased that I have found a way to express myself, albeit I don't do it as often as I would like. Still, baby steps..!

What the heck, let me get the ball rolling, here's the "story" I had in the notebook. On glancing at the date, it appears it was little over a year ago. I simply don't remember it being so recent. Charmingly enough, before the story I wrote the following:

Let me experiment a little.

And without further ado, here we go:

---

(Professor's study, 1969)
It was purely by chance that I came across the latter. Buried amongst a pile of obscure writings and seemingly incoherent scribbles, it was hardly the sort of thing one would notice. I wonder what life would have been like had I not seen it. But I can't, really. Whatever I imagine has been directly influenced by what has happened. The 'other' reality my mind creates is probably further away from reality than the actual non-reality. But I still wonder.

Several hours I spent that night, legs resting on the table as I glimpsed at the moon. This, this was real. This was. It existed - a moment was something born, something which lived. I sighed with satisfaction.

(1984)
"What's this about your daughter being missing?"
('As a sparrow flies, the hawk follows')
"Yes, I don't know what to do anymore"
('Blood, red blood, dripping from the ceiling. I can taste it')
"Never fear, we'll find her soon"
('Wait a while. The axe will fall')
"I say, are you alright?"
"Not really, no.."
('Tears are for the weak')


(1951)
"Chaos. It's everywhere. But what is it? How to define it? More importantly, how to stop it? Can we stop it?"

No idea what he's talking about. Time seems to be crawling. Tick-tock..

"Let's overthrow the government"

Didn't see that one coming.

"Volunteers?"

Can't hurt.

(1977)
The raids are everywhere. It's only a matter of time. But now I have a family. Surely that's enough for them?

(1973)
"It's a girl".

I'm so happy.

(1968)
I wonder what he's up to. Surely nothing dangerous? Curses that he should be a guest here! Jane sure knows the best time to find distant relatives.

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I know, I know, it's not so much a story than a stream of consciousness ramble. I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking at the time. An interesting artifact of the past (for me anyway, you probably don't care!). The jumping between past and present, incidentally, is influenced by Eyeless In Gaza. Is Huxley the only author I've read!? No, but he's the one who's had the most impact on me.

Please, save your scorn, and pity my former-self, he was but a young lad trying to fit into this crazy world.