Every night when I go to bed I protest against myself. I protest against my inability to take my work seriously. I protest against my carelessness. I protest against my carefree attitude towards life. This routine silent protest is followed by a session of thinking, contemplation and self-reflection.
The night doesn’t end there. After this self-induced reawakening, I start working on panoply of ideas, not on my laptop but in my head. Night is the time when I am most creative. Night is the time when I am free. Night is the time when my mind is unoccupied. To be honest it is difficult for me to sleep at night. Not that I am an insomniac. I enjoy sleeping but I enjoy sleeping late. Mostly after the clock strikes midnight.
I tirelessly evaluate ideas appearing and disappearing in my mind. Interestingly, when you are in business with ideas it is difficult to keep a track of them. There are moments when a dozen of them would surface simultaneously creating a hullabaloo in your mind, making it extremely difficult for you to pick – which one to select and which one to eliminate? The problem with an idea is that it is strenuous to retain or express it in its pure form. Ideas are transient, shapeless, and ephemeral. They float, they bloat and transcend. They are formless. Unlike a letter, a word or a sentence, they are not bound by canons. Only the mind that bears an idea can decipher or explain it.
Sometimes they appear in the form of foggy pictures, blurred concepts, and jumbled images. Sometimes in cryptic language; if ever spoken would sound gibberish. You can see them but it is difficult to translate them into comprehensible words. The funny thing about ideas is that they are beyond your control. Unlike the process of writing in which both mind and hands are constantly in tandem, ideas just tend to generate and regenerate involuntarily. At times, it becomes difficult to navigate through them. You sometimes even want to escape and take a break from them. The most frustrating characteristic of an idea is that it might cease to exist when in the morning you decide to scribble them down.
Thinking about my ideas, every night before falling asleep I promise myself that tomorrow would be a new day. But when “tomorrow” transforms into “today”, it acquires the attributes of “yesterday”. And again at night, like all other nights I protest against myself.
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