Of Focus, and Journeys

It’s normal to assume that working individuals need a break. Irrespective of the type of “work”. But I wasn’t working. Ever since school has ended, I have been on an extended vacation. College began, the first semester is now over, but my break continues. All that I have done during this 6 month period is write a couple dozen poems, with a handful of good ones and the rest worthy of only the trash box. And some part of me knows how true this is, and I don’t feel too good about this.

It all began last July. By all I mean college. The one place which has become the focal point of all my activities. It suddenly feels like my life rotates around this one expanse we know as the University Campus. Not that it is a bad thing. Focusing one’s existence is necessary, but I fear that that isn’t what has happened here. I’m hardly drawn to the buildings, the fields, the admin blocks, the corridors, the classrooms. Somehow, despite all this being integral to me, they still feel empty at some level. I do realize what causes this emptiness, and how to fill in. Places are never memorable on their own; it’s the people who make places memorable. And the reason why I love college is that I love the people at college.

This could very well turn into those thankful endnotes at the conclusion of what people consider an era, filled with acknowledgments, apologies, words of appreciation and those of gratitude. But it would be silly to do so at this stage. Most feelings are immature, most understandings are conjecture and most conclusions are assumptions. To write about the people around me at this stage will be a sad attempt filled with illogical projections and subjective idiocy on my part, something I can totally do without.

So, all one can make out of this piece is:
1) I know I haven’t been writing for quite some time now and really wish to resume.
2) Life is based on campus. Campus is all about friends.
3) I’m not in a position to write about my friends.

So where does that leave me?
Back where I began. With the fire to write, the will to type down pages at end, to go on without stops, to do what I love. To write. But with nothing to write about.

Four hundred words on, I haven’t yet started.
This, I’d like to believe is a phase. A phase that is meant to pass over with time. But now, with time I have come to realize that this unproductive phase has become periodic in nature. It requires immense focus to recover from this crevice I find myself trapped in. Focus sadly, is nowhere in sight.
And that is where I’ll stop. I’ll stop because I can see that I have ceased to make sense. I’ll stop because I know something’s wrong, and unless I set that right, its pointless looking for the focus I keep talking of.
I can see now what people mean when they say that one has been circumlocuting for hours without reaching anywhere. I see myself, backing off and onto a journey looking for what I need, because I’m not sure that I know what that is.

Till then, keep faith.