of writers, writings and romantics

Dear S,

Taking off from your last lines, the fact that you are simply 'glad' that you bring a positive effect to some lives, however big or small, is what enables you to be that person. I have always had trouble relating to full-time 'gurus'. And now I understand, that is because if being 'helpful' is your profession or even vocation, then you are not being helpful or comforting for the sake of bringing relief... you are doing it for the same reason a Harvard Law School topper would defend a raped woman against a billionaire convict- not because he feels any kind of empathy (although he most certainly can), but because that is what he paid $60,000 a year to earn the license to do. It's his job, and he is neck deep in student loan. But when you pick up a kid from the playground, wipe her tears, wash the skinned knee, and then suddenly blurt out, "shit! I'm late...", and run off to wherever you were headed, you are acting out of genuine concern, and good will. That's what makes you that person. As Ali once said, " A champion never forgets where he is going. But a legend never forgets where he is from".

Yes, you are right. I am an incurable romantic. Much like you. And perhaps I am much more too. But, as romanticism goes, lets just say while I chose to roar and thunder, you have chosen to look up at the moon and quietly sigh, not in desperation, but in silent appreciation of its beauty without craving it. No, I am not epitomizing you. Both kinds have their uses. While romanticism, I believe, benefited from Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth alike, the romantics concerned experienced life in very different ways. One should not be foolhardy enough to try a qualitative analysis here. But it is undeniable that the way they composed and the way they experienced life, at some level, fed each other. I guess, this is why you and I react so very differently in certain situations, while sharing very similar experiences and philosophies, and a much alike emotional constituency.

You say people tell you that you write very well. I think they are right. That is being very condescending, coming from me to you, I realize it even as my fingers work the keyboard. But you are not the kind who would like to read an encyclopaedia entitled " Life and Times of S++++v+s S++++th+++ar: A Look Back in Gratitude", are you? So I guess I would do better to leave out the details. But you ARE extremely fluid while painting with words. I'm sure you've had your suspicions. If I were you, and I do not feel I am half as good ( not with words, certainly not with Linguistics, and work ethics is a far cry), I wouldn't. But that's why we are different. That's why while I choose to stand against the waves, and challenge there might, and then look around and realize I'm neither victorious nor vanquished, but simply by myself, alone and solitary, all the while still fuming with pent up aggression, you can afford to turn yourself into the liquid, and change shape and find your way in and out of all the snares, and be at peace. When you write, or at least when people read what you write, it feels like listening to a lore-master recount stories and experiences of a lifetime. You write to speak. You are, like James Joyce, the artist who has chosen exile and solitude to express himself in utter freedom, unrestrained and unaffected by what he writes. "Ars gratia artis".

I, on the other hand, get involved with what I write. Writing, for me, is a safety-valve that lets out the excess pressure and prevents the dam from rupturing. I get so utterly involved with what I write, so emotionally attached, that the text and the author becomes alter-egos. My texts are like my own doppelgangers. I have to rely utterly on my limited ability to get along with words to maintain my identity. I am afraid, that if my writings do not tell about the place inside me, where I am all by myself surrounded by my angels and demons, as they wage a war to claim me for their own, I will forever lose my way and be lost in my own personal Neverland. Perhaps you are too generous. Perhaps you have at some time, long ago when you were young and unwise like me, have felt the same emotions, and can still recall what it's like to live a double-life- one in the world around that has no sense, one in the Neverland inside the 'self' that you can't make sense out of, yet. But be that as it may, the artist in you has long reached maturity and found that truth and beauty seldom co-exist. The aspiring one in me, is still getting used to the joy of being able to handle the pencil without breaking the lead.