I had been going through my previous blog posts off-late. I must say that I was left dumbfounded, by the sheer difference in the contents of my blog in the very beginning (when I had started it) and my later articles (when I was just a year older). My posts in the beginning used to be school-girlish enthusiastic, unbelievably cheerful and full of curiosity. If my life then was punctuation, it would be a string of question marks and exclamation marks. But as I grew from eighteen to nineteen, none of the little things that used to matter to me earlier, mattered to me anymore. At least that’s what my writing told me. I wondered what happened. I wondered and kept wondering till the answer decided to force its way into my head. I had, like every other person, seen the big bad world, tumbled, fallen, hurt myself and blah blah blah…So that accounts for some of my oh-so-intense, sigh-heaving articles with all their mature, curt full stops.
I was dumbfounded, yes. But positively. I loved how I could see the very many changes in my life—my obsessions and fears, my heartbreaks, my hormone-induced nonsense and at times, the ridiculous dispositions I find myself in, through a simple blog. And then it struck me that writing performs a unique role in life. Writing preserves the earlier, more or less wise version of you on a page, tucked away into the safe confines of a book (or wordpress, in this electronic era). J.K Rowling used this concept beautifully in her second Harry Potter novel ( remember Tom Riddle’s diary ?). Indeed, writing preserves our memories.
Talking of memories, let me gently remind you dear reader that we do not have pensieves like in Rowling’s beautiful world. We poor muggles have only two devices to store our memories. The first is common, our soul. Unlike popular perception, it is not the mind that remembers and stores memories. According to me, it is our soul. Occurrences, information and incidents are plain, and the mind stores them alright; but memories my friend, are times of our lives which blatantly or reluctantly we have enjoyed genuinely. And the most genuine happiness can only be cherished by our soul, for it makes the soul warm in times when it is frozen hard in a frostbite. But alas! The human soul is, I believe, very weak. It changes greatly with time. Just like the human body, disease and desire can greatly alter the the human soul and make us forget who we are. Our souls can therefore, not be trusted in the task of keeping safe our most personal, happy and special memories.
But what can be trusted though is a book (or blog!). It will never deceive you. If people write down their happy moments, their intelligent and silly thoughts or even little conquests of daily living, they end up preserving their memories. They immortalize themselves. And so, writing is the second device to store our memories. Why, if you have inferred anything from the first paragraph of this blog post, you must have found out that writing also allows us to know who we used to be and who we have become. And what caused the changes.
Well, many congratulations to you for making it to the end of this 19-year-old’s self-indulgent post. All I wish to say in conclusion, is that though writing gives me many creative and intellectual pleasures, its best function is to store my memories. And even as I write this, clad in black homely harems and my favourite pink T-shirt, I am actually typing down a memory .Oh look ! There she flutters away, my memory, my butterfly. I am actually in the process of trapping that little colourful butterfly, down to this very word.
DISCLAIMER: The blogger cares for animal..err insect rights and no butterflies were harmed during the event of this blog being typed. Also, the usage of the butterfly metaphor is strictly for creative expression and not any hidden sadistic intentions/passion for trapping harmless butterflies.