The title “Epiphany After a Brown Study” is erroneous, seeing as I haven’t really had an earth-shaking revelation, and is actually a product of wishful thinking.
I generally tend to ruminate a whole lot, and if no obsession is available for my mind to chew on, I start to get mentally restless, and the feeling that something’s missing- that nagging void in my mind- becomes more pronounced.
I’m typing this not because there has been a dire need for me to do so for a while now, but for the sheer lack of more frivolous and unfruitful activities to occupy me.
The product of my ruminations of the last few days have been slightly disturbing, because, I think, my board examinations are over and I’m not constantly plagued by the notion of having to deal with the interpersonal and interpersonal repercussions that come with faring badly in an important, life determining examination, such as the boards. Anyway, I realize I constantly harbour a feeling of free-floating inadequacy, as if I’m not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not talented enough. TALENT. This one, in particular, kills me. The fact that I have nary an answer to the question,”what have I to offer to the world?” just flays my mind of any remnants of sunshine that may light up its dark corners.
Alright, alright. I’m being dramatic. But I’m just trying to deal with the fact that I’m an insignificant and unremarkable member of an insipid, primitive, self-destructive and redundant race. My belief in panspermia and advanced extraterrestrial life don’t fail to exacerbate the unpleasant feeling. I am reminded of Douglas Adams, a genius who dealt with the severely under-acknowledged fact of our insignificance so beautifully with the total perspective vortex (hitchhikers guide to the galaxy fans will know what i mean). Having talent, I can’t help feeling, will reduce, or at least temporarily mask this feeling, and grant me an ephemeral sense of self- worth. I seek to have a talent to rid myself of this feeling of being unselved.
I’ve been writing poetry since I was eight and the surreal satisfaction that comes with the rhythmic melancholy of stark and eloquent expression has acted as my spur for almost a decade. Poetry is the one form of catharsis that I regard as being as efficient as the infinitely satisfying process of lacrimation. But of late, I now realize, I have been writing only to sustain a sense of pseudo-satisfaction, one that comes with me feeling that I actually have something to offer through my poetry, something that makes me worthy as an individual, and not a “piece of furniture” as one of my friends put it. This is a sorry reason for me to engage in an activity that was once spurred by only passion and a love for the art.
Why must I deem myself “not good enough” and then bank on writing poetry to rid myself of the feeling? Not only is it an insult to the beautiful art that is writing verse, but it also reflects on my insecurity and the ineffective way in which I have been trying to deal with it.
Hereafter, I promise myself to write just for the joy of writing and not as a means of escape from the feeling of inadequacy.