BiblioBlock

This is a word I have conjured to describe the condition my mind is living in, from the past few months. This condition has been a chip on my shoulder, growing heavier by every week, making my mind sink, and my hands weak. The rhyming wasn’t on purpose; it slipped through, as the letters I type now are for my own, and not to prove my worth to a prospective recruiter for a job.

The Quarantine started during the month of March, and it has really brought out some colourful responses from people, and I’m very proud of everyone who has battled their demons and been brave throughout, Proud of people who have been productive with their time, and even proud of people who have stopped rushing for a minute and taken a break, taken a break to heal, to rest, to scroll through and sleep well. I would also want to empathize with people who felt disconnected from the world, lost their will for a while, withdrew into their inner hole, and was obsessed with the social world, and cheers to us for hoping this too shall pass.

I have been obsessed with fictional books from my childhood. Ever since I can remember something related to my childhood, it’s being buried in fictional books ever since. My concept of favoritism within books starts with the threshold of fiction adopting reality as its own and sprinkling it with excitement and colours. Yes, I do know we need to live in the present world, and face reality, but when we are living in it, let’s escape and chill in the fictional world for a little while. My writing phase started when I was afraid of letting precious memories dim in my mind, I started documenting everything I did. I started writing poems when I took pictures from my phone, and described the feeling with my words.

So, quarantine could have been a wonderful time for me to read all the new best sellers and write more about everything I wanted to, and there were plenty of issues to reflect on. However, for the first few days I took a break from my hobby and stuck to my phone, I wanted a break from everything as college had been hectic in the last few months. I had selected a book – The Great Gatsby, a classic, I wanted to compensate for my mistake of watching the movie version of it prior to reading it. I stuck to my phone, mainly to Instagram for the remainder days of March. I had plenty of time where I was bored on the phone, and switched to TV and my books felt neglected. In the month of April, I picked a book, I clicked a picture and sent it as a streak, however, I couldn’t upload a story on Instagram because then I would be cheating myself. Nobody would know, but I would…and my friends kept asking me “So, how many books are done? Suggest me books no, you read so many, Have you written a novel, you were waiting for this time! “. Somehow I couldn’t tell them that I have lost my reading ability. Every time I picked a book to write or read, I would scratch out the stuff I write because they weren’t to my standard, I wrote them again and again to erase them out. I had lost my habit of writing a diary too, so even when I took out my old diary to write my issues, which were plenty in a day, I couldn’t confide my problems to them.

The one solace I had in this quarantine was video calls with my friends and the midnight sesh of cooking stuff with my cousins. I would rant out stuff to my friends, hoping if I would keep it all out, I could get back my words and pen them down , I ranted till I was out of breath, till I stopped making sense, till  they sighed because they had enough of me . I opened my diary then, confident I could write again, but the pen refused to stand. I tore out the pages then, I tore all the pages with my previous writings, and I tore them out from bits to pieces, until I couldn’t understand the words on the bits.

My bigger issue was about living in the real world, not able to escape into my books. The real world stuffed me with information I couldn’t digest, shoved problems in my face which I couldn’t solve, and I felt as helpless as one could feel. Privilege is a guilty pleasure, you’re thankful for the place you’re in, and also guilty about it when you’re helpless about it. Suddenly, having to deal with these issues, having nobody nearby to confide in, and getting sucked into the toxic gram was all too much. I knew I had to start applying for jobs right away, but I delayed the process by telling myself that the exams are yet to come, do it later. I couldn’t write, couldn’t read, couldn’t talk , day by day I grew silent , I withdrew into my phone as a coping mechanism , but I couldn’t concentrate there either. I started watching a show, I would delete it, I left them in between, I called people, I cut it before it rang, I watched clichéd rom coms and cried at night, and told myself I’m crying over the movie, and not over my pitiable state. Three months passed, my read list remained nil. My writing took a toll to the point I didn’t want to spell out the complete word and I just wrote the first alphabet of it. I had never imagined a state where I wouldn’t touch books for months when I could, as everyone who knows me also know that I would choose a book over them any day.

In the fourth month, I felt a ray of hope. I had a friend Ratnadeep who has his own idea set up, about the company The Honest critique, where they deliver news, latest updates on anything, and books and movie reviews. He asked me to review books for the page, and I agreed. This was my chance for finally being productive and getting touch with my lifelines. It was easy to agree, and hard to act upon as the books I needed to read were all online and that meant using my phone for it. I took an old book for starters and wrote a review. It wasn’t a review; it was a PR urging the audience to read the book with all its falsetto claims of being the best book in the world. I was aghast, this wasn’t me. My friend told me not to worry, he told ill get in my touch again. The next week, I devoured a book again, but not because I wanted to; but I had to. I wrote a better review, but I wasn’t satisfied. Week after week, I read words, not my novels, I flipped through faster to complete them but not to enjoy the suspense. I wrote reviews and tagged authors, their notification would validate my review, if not, and I felt it waste. Good books came my way, and I flipped them through like I would a Math’s textbook, so distracted by nothing, but not taking in anything.

It’s the month of July now, I only read the latest bestsellers on a Monday to give my review, and still don’t enjoy them. I continuously apply on various job platforms and write empty articles for them. They don’t contain my charm , they just contain alphabets. I’ve been sick and tired of being rejected , and the biggest fall is within me .I am yet to regain my ability of writing poems and feelings, yet to feel a hard cover in my hand, and listen to the rustle of the pages. I am writing this piece in particular, as I want to get out of this self created stigma of losing touch with my hobby, and bring closure to myself. I want to prove to the inner under confident me , that my fingertips ache to type more , feel more, express more, all in good time.This is a phase, this too shall pass…at least I hope so.