It Is All About Blogging

If blogging is an art of an intelligent alignment of ideas on various issues established writers do not care to write about and a shoddy style of making it in a way that is open to many literary fallacies, I have already done a bit of it. In the first place, I have chosen to write on issues that have stirred my feelings of spleen without seeking to be impeccable in the art of composition. The other day one of the neighbours from our locality died, leaving behind the uneventful history of a chequered life that others did not even care to despise as he had failed to live an entire life with his progressive wife and retain the membership  of the leftist party that talked about changes without changing itself. He would look a sorry sight at all the places such as the bazaar, the bus depot crowed with the people in their tearing hurry to get to their places of work and sometimes at the local branch of a nationalized bank with a sort of nervousness that could be a signal to robbers to clean him of what he still possessed. I appeared before him out of nowhere and talked to him for some time. As he beamed I could not but resist the temptation of clicking him with my phone but that I was going to blog about him was clear from the way I tried to be a bit curious about him. He smiled and then told me in a tone that was a bit coy that his wife had returned the day before and had cooked the most delicious item of his life. The piece of information that he had just given with a sort of brazen romanticism seemed to be a death blow to my blog as I could not and did not want to write about anything that did not have the best of dramatic irony. I felt like pushing him away to look for something to add fuel to my blog ever blazing a trail.

 My blog could be enriched with the story of worthlessness that is shocking but it can not have the plainness of what has utmost goodness. The story of a deceptive charm is more of a story element for my blog than that of what appears to be innocuous. No sooner did I write so far than I had to get up to open the door responding to the buzz of the bell that had kept me intoxicated for the last few years. It kept me awake, urging me to pound on the keys of the computer as I produced all the tempting posts which have turned out to be highly controversial and irreverent. A blogger has nothing to lose but his page views, crooned the woman who had just returned, smelling of an expensive perfume. She handed me a photograph of herself with another man I quietly hated, though I feared to be jealous of him. She patted on my back saying the best of daring and irreverent blogging should have something explicit like this with the racy text of my genre. The sheer deceptiveness of her smile seemed to make me an ancient man across the length of a million centuries during many of which I had blogged, carving on trees, my boats and mountain caves. For the first time I regretted the suppression of the tears that I could see trapped in the words bobbing on my new daring post.

In my dream last night the spirit of the neighbour told me that I should take some time before writing about him. He wanted me to take time to develop the fortitude of condoning certain things of life to recognize life on the fringes. He spoke in a prophetic tone that an honest assessment of many things otherwise misshapen might supply the clue to what will sustain life that we instinctively love to adore. Though I loved to listen to him, I could not tell him that I had to survive on an apparent obliqueness of what was shockingly obvious. Yes it does inspire me to blog about my discovery of life every moment of which is lived with a sort of enthusiasm, scalding myself and all of them.