For days now, I have wanted to blog. The urge would bubble over me, entrapping me in obsessed paranoia. I’d open my blog, put my fingers on the keyboard expectantly. Nothing would happen. I’d type out a few words, marveling in the futility of the exercise. In Manori, where the Internet facilities were extremely limited, I decided I wanted to blog – I didn’t know what about, I just knew that it HAD to happen. I placed my laptop this way and that way. I even showered and changed for the occasion – The Day I Finally Blogged. I took my laptop outdoors, in the cool spring breeze – then brought him back inside so he wouldn’t get chilly. When he was finally comfy, the Internet wouldn’t work. I screamed, I kicked and slapped, I even shed a few tears, and bit Hobo’s finger for good measure. After a few beers and singing songs happily and tunelessly, I "forgot". But the thought lingered.
I have had all the opportunities in the world to blog whenever I felt like it. I told myself I had exams, that a blog is distracting, that my Internet was never fast enough. I realize now that a part of me has been afraid to blog. I don’t like the stuff Mappings has been spewing lately. An It had described Mappings perfect – soggy and slightly damp. I’m afraid that he’s gotten worse over time. Sending him on a holiday didn’t help much either. He came back with a wonderful tan, but not much else to ease his soul. I’m afraid that if I search myself hard and deep and long enough, Ill find that its ME that has become soggy and damp – not Mappings. And I have nothing but well, damp and soggy stuff to – spew. I like the word spew.
After years of blogging, I remembered that there hasn’t been a time when I couldn’t stand the thought of blogging – or worse, a time when I was indifferent towards blogging. I am indifferent now. I love Mappings with an unconditional love that I cannot get rid of. I go to Mappings often. I make him change his clothes – a green T-shirt, an orange shirt, gray shorts. I make him presentable, I sent him on a vacation. I talk to him sometimes, and reprimand him for sarcasm and rudeness. Or for being a slob. He is more mine than he ever was. Despite circumstances and other such oddities, he is my blogititude. But something’s wrong somewhere. He’s become the book you searched high and low for. Once you found it, you clutched it with joy and read it cover to cover. Then you read it again and again. Then you put it in your bookshelf, and although you look at it now and then with memories and affection, you don’t really read it that often. Sometimes you’ll remove it, wipe off the dust and read a few favourite parts. And you’ll put it back again.