Many a times whenever I brood over whether I have been sincere with the nomenclature of my blog expression, I feel depressed. Having begun with such zeal and not being able to keep it up is saddening. Within me, I know, I haven't been sincere with. Or serious either.
Most of the time when I pick up the pen try jotting down thoughts, sooner or later ideas fades, language breaks, and what more--interest is lost. And in this way I have written dozens, which never crystallized! However, as always, the impulse to begin is so overwhelming that thoughts often force out into chunks now and then. Bizarre incongruity!
Remembering in The Last Leaf (O Henry) how poor Mr Behrman gave his life away trying to save one Joshy shows how remarkably he painted his 'masterpiece' with the ivy leaf. Yes, it is indeed a masterpiece, which only (I would argue) saved Joshy's life. But the first part of the story is which is in question. Perhaps this could be one reason why my thoughts fade away often--'a well prepared easel (which Mr Behrman kept) ready for the masterpiece to be drawn some day!'
Well, Mr Behrman may not have practically been able to draw a masterpiece in terms of which the real world defines the word as. However, the painting is no less than a masterpiece. And it is this idea which O Henry wants to draw our attention to, I believe.
One another reason is perhaps about the world view, the attitude towards life I possess. It is the perception about the real world, the thought process, and the like..., if I have gotten the thing rightly. Relating this miniature entity with that of a vast thing 'world view' is itself disproportionate in the first place, they may say. But then, it will cease once the reader bears in mind clearly about the writer one is reading about.
Is anybody prohibiting me to do this? Is it not my own blog? Am I not free to write everything I want to? All such justifications are right, however. But my tools to such a pious task are unsharpened, unpolished and unprepared. Perhaps I landed accidentally on the life's journey. Perhaps I found the way by chance. Whatever, I have dreamt of treading on this path since past decade or more. Having nursed a feeling smoldering within for so long, can I even think of parting with? Why shouldn't I try to write then whatever I can? May be, in this exercise, one day Providence
