By: Shekhar Sandhwar

Writing when you do know what to generate out of it, becomes an assailable enemy and you like a savage; blast it, lambast it, attack it, abuse it and whatnot… I often wonder. The treat to bombard the reader with the idea that fancifully flights through our imagination; not knowing how it affects the readers, what objective it will fetch and why it should come into existence for deliberation has really been an endeavour of nonsense and has been a notorious tradition and practices amongst the writers.

More often we write for the sake of writing to know ourselves, to investigate our potential to question what goes conflicting in us or to exhibit what we reckon or conceive meaningfully… oops, fanciful. (I don’t mention truth here as true as we know or should know can be subjectively interpreted, differed, criticized and analyzed from one’s perspective of suitability and acceptability).

Such writing is very personal, truth enclosed in it is narrowly placed, meaning in it goes highly contradicting and purpose disarrayed in it but my core belief and experience find such writings more instinctively and intuitionally great. The writings without agenda and propaganda is a free flow of thoughts/emotions and follow no dotted line of tradition and overweening convention and accept no preconceived notions of right or wrong, often brings genius out of us.

But at the same time if one follows agenda or propaganda, methodology, some political orientation and ideological motives marring the true spirit of penmanship thereby enforcing a morphed display of intellectuality which lead to absurdity and mockery of writing itself. Such endeavour merely appears to perform a transaction of goods (Oops Ideas) to suit ones motive, money and material. I feel I am to conceive and rename i.e. such writing which has the worth to run 99% of earth’s creativity, but such writing only maintains a given status quo, it does not push, propel the humanity, doesn’t pave the path for new occupancy of the fresh abstraction, intellection and of course impressions. And without them, life is like a loaf of stale bread, necessary to survive but not harbouring the impatient desires, crazy streaks, eager excitement and ardent sigh. And the absence of them in writing leads to no exuberance in life. We are better like objects or a thing of utility otherwise but not of innovation.

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