23/6/14 – 29/6/14
The days went by in silence, with occasional bouts of laughter, while still reeling under overpowering memories that came rushing in the week before. I do not yet know what format of diary writing I should adopt, hence trying this new one, where I put date within the blog post. One way that this ‘pledge’ of writing a weekly diary has affected me or my life is that now I look forward to making every moment count, so that, at the end of a week, I have something remarkable to write about. However, life is not too remarkable in itself, and therefore to expect every moment and day that make up life, to be “remarkable”, is ultimate Utopian fantasy. Why can’t days not be remarkable and still worthy of being written about?
My week wasn’t remarkable. It was routine. I continued reading books that I have been reading for a few weeks now, and struggling to complete them under tight work schedule. However, I do steal some moments to read books. In lunch, while having dinner or while having a quiet cup of coffee in the evening, or late in the night. Apart from them, let me confess that I am totally caught up in football world cup frenzy, and I try to find 90 minutes to watch at least one or the other match during a week. I did watch Brazil vs Chile.
One day I shall sit, and stitch words together to write a blog post on a non-remarkable week. To recollect memories of non-remarkable events is tough, almost impossible, and same is happening with me now. In future, I shall write on insignificant days. I haven’t seen or read books on insignificant people, insignificant events, insignificant moments and days. A large, in fact most part, of existence on earth is mundane, is insignificant and therefore, traditionally, not worth recording. I haven’t read books on insignificant events and people. A life of a regular farmer, or a regular salaried middle class employee, may be they have been written, but it must be because something about their life must have been remarkable enough. Are insignificant events or people or moments not fecund to give birth to a story that is worth reading for pleasure? Would I want to read about an insignificant farmer, with well-to-do lifestyle or a poor farmer with tough life and trying to fight against a “system” or “society” or “injustice” in his/her own manner? I have no idea.