Have you read a book today?

Some people will tell you they write for their own self. That they do not care for an audience and its approval, opinion, appreciation or criticism. If there was even an ounce of truth in that, we would not have books and blogs and magazines and dailies. We would have room after room filled with personal journals resting in heaps of dust.
Shakespeare, Shelly, Keats, Frost, Austen, Dickens, The Bronte sisters, Nietzsche, Blyton, Wodehouse, Rumi, Conrad, Bernard Shaw, Miler, Eliot, O’Hara, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Tennessee, Twain, Lawrence, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Virginia Woolf and so many others would be names you haven’t heard of and their genius- things you haven’t read.
You would not be reading this post on my Blog if I decided to write for my else.

The truth remains that Every artist craves for an audience. Seeking acceptance is but human nature. So more than the “price” an art may fetch its artist, it is the admiration or recognition by masses that matters. That,perhaps, is the reason non- promotional wine tastings, art shows and exhibitions came into place. A dancer gets paid to perform but it is for an audience that takes delight in every twist of her ankle or every delicate turn of her waist that she spends days perfecting her every move before a show.

If you have ever known someone who writes, or better still are that someone yourself, you’ll know that there is a hope to be read and judged that does not extinguish…it just keeps burning higher like the flames of a wild, untamed fire.
There are the days when you write only for yourself but more often than not one writes to be read. And that is as true and real as the sun that shines every morning.

For a good twelve years I was aloof to this world of its own. And then someone gifted me a fat book in a maroon leather jacket for my thirteenth birthday. It was my least favorite gift the instant I saw it. Chocolates, Art kits and teddy bears won over that fat jacketed book.
But that changed. Almost an year later, I could not sleep one night and saw this book abandoned at the bottom drawer of my dresser. I thought of giving it a try. The best hours of my life happened. My first book. It was more exciting than a first romance. Men just can not make a woman feel all that a book can.
Unfortunately, I do not remember its name or what it was about, perhaps the fact that I have read over a thousand books since then is to blame. I would waddle in and out of the library on evenings that followed the sleepless night. I would sleep with a book under my pillow every night. There were times when I revisited books I had previously read only to unearth an entirely different dimension. The book with its characters and stories and souls and smells and spots was good as new again. A book at times can have more depth than a live person. And any amount of time spent swimming in its secrets will still leave something untouched for your next union. For a solid chunk of fibers compacted into thin sheet, a book has remarkable vicousity.

Books are treasures worth a million folds more than the tiny black digits prinited at the back of their jacket. They are treasure. Every word and letter and line in them, the riches.
Through some books I have travelled the lengths and breadths of the world and through others beyond the limits of possibility.
To be able to find yourself lost in an imagination and at times to become a part of it is the most beautiful experience there is. It is at this point that an appearance does not matter as much as a personality. It is at this point that you get entangled in a web so intricate yet woven by someone else.
You get involved. You do not buy the final product of an effort. You become a part of it. You may not know the author of the masterpiece you spent days and days and hours savouring and there is not a fat chance in the world that he will ever know you but there is something more evolved than worldly associations of acquaintance that binds you, something beyond physical presence or emotional dependance. He is your ticket to time travel and you, the audience he creates for.

Ever wanted to see a new place, meet new people and have new experiences without spending a dime?
Read a book. Or better still, write one.

Have you read a book today?

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The Versatile Blogger: My 2nd

Many Thanks to silentlyheardonce for Nominating me for this Award.

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Image from Here

She has an amazing Blog that you absolutely must check out.

And Taaadaaaa!
Here is the award.

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Now There are some rules involved in it which I have to abide by

1. Thank the award-giver and link back to them in your post.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Pass this award along to 15 recently discovered blogs you enjoy reading.
4. Contact your chosen bloggers to let them know about the award.

The Seven things a lot of people probably don’t know about me:

1. I still sleep with My Teddy Bear. The same one for the past 15 year *_*
2. I don’t have a passport. And this is not a joke. 😐
3. My birth name is Vaidehi (Another name for Goddess Sita) It got changed to Aakanksha (which means Inspiration) in a comedy of errors.
4. I have never used and never learned to use Photoshop.
5. I have been in and out of 7 relationships and am the best of friends with six of my ex-boyfriends.  The 7th can drop dead 😡
6. When I was 4 I used to tell random strangers on the road that my mother died in childbirth for their sympathy and attention. 😦 I still feel bad about it. But then again, I was 4.
7. I absolutely LOVE and appreciate receiving awards, comments and likes. I look forward to every single one of them.

Now it comes to passing on this award to 15 people and I hate to say this but I don’t have even one person in my knowledge who I can pass it on to. I am very new to wordpress (I joined on 5 days back!) and almost all bloggers I know already have this award. As and when I meet new people and discover new blogs I promise to pass this on to the ones worthy of it.

Thanks a pile to everyone who has stopped by to read my blog. Your likes, comments and visits make a sea of difference to me 🙂

Have thoughts, Will Rhyme.

I am often asked questions on the lines of:

“What were you thinking when you wrote that?”
“Did you just make that whole post up in the Anatomy lecture?”
“DID YOU REALLY WRITE THAT? YOURSELF?? ON YOUR OWN?”
“Where did that thought even come from?”

Apart from the utter amazement that people convey by hurling questions at whatever little writing skill I possess..these questions tell me that I must be doing something right. If a reader is intrigued and engaged enough to want to know where the writer is coming from(in terms of thoughts and ideas) and not just swallow a couple of fancy sounding words the writer throws his way, then there is no better justification to your efforts.

That said, I’ll have to agree that sometimes these questions make me doubt myself. It’s difficult to decipher if it’s the quality of your writing responsible for triggering such reactions or that it is hard to digest that you could actually write something “on your own”.
On one such occasion when my Mother called me to say that she really enjoyed reading an article I wrote which was published in my school magazine and it was unbelievably well written, I had to stop her to ask what was unbelievable – The fact that I could write something or that it was REALLY good. Mother just laughed that off and my question remains unanswered.

So when someone I know posted a really reaaallly “surprised” comment on one of my posts on Facebook I instantly recoiled into my shell of self-doubt and zero confidence.
This is the conversation with my oldest friend that followed and made these remarks and ever considering them seem pointless altogether:

“You are not your usual self today. Everything alright?”
“Oh yes! Everything is just fine.”
“Just fine? Seriously? You think you can get me with “Just fine” after 9 years?”
“Alright. I am not fine. Its just something silly. You’ll probably think I am getting senile or PMSing.”
“Get it out. We’ll see it when we see it.”
“X just posted a really weird comment on that note I wrote. I just dont feeling really good about myself after that.”
“Remember what you told your Physics teacher in class 10 when s/he asked you what makes you want to join ’16 days with Shakespeare’ (debating and literature club) instead of ‘Science Club’?”
“Yeah, Vaguely. Why?”
“Bother to repeat it out aloud and hear yourself say it?”
“Nay, as if feeling bad over a Facebook comment is not lame enough.”
“Just do it, A.”
“Uhh. Alright.

Sometimes we hold the answers to all our questions. Maybe we just need to hear ourselves say it.

A Poetically Incorrect welcome post.

“If it doesn’t work horizontally as prose,
it
probably
wont
work
any
better
vertically
pretending
to
be
poetry.”

This quote is the inspiration behind this blog’s name and a lot of other things in my life.
To be here..it doesn’t matter if you are poetically incorrect or not. Doesn’t even matter if you are poetic, to be frank. If you respire, if you’ve created a carbon footprint (both of which are certain if you’re reading this) then you are a poet in your own sense. Everyday, every minute that you live, you create the stimuli for a string of words that, someday, will weave themself into a lyrical beauty some may call poetry, others song. The way you curve your lips into a smile, the sharp tip of your nose, the eyes you safely encapsulate a million dreams in, the hands tired from carrying on the random routines of existence, the legs only ever moving forward with the fluidity of your thought. Your every action is reason for celebration. And what better celebration than immortalizing that moment. And what better way of immortalizing than painting a picture with words? For it will not change with the dynamics of your growth into something else for someone else to immortalize in a pictue of words.
But some may say its incorrect to write more and live less. Then dont! Live more. Live each moment more deliberately. But write one word more than that. Write as much as you can. Dont worry if it is wrong. If it really is, All you’ll have is The Life of The Poetically Incorrect.

Carpe Diem.