The inadequacy of feeling Less.

The world is less than perfect. I can live with that. But what I cannot come to terms with, is feeling less than comfortable with myself. And somehow, that’s how I feel right now.

The Lessness of being has come to haunt me increasingly in my waking hours. The pointLess pursuit of satisfaction in a job. The meaningLess much ado about everything material. The useLess universal truth that urges us not to think beyond ourselves. The senseLess stupidity in expecting others to understand that this the way I am. The ruthLessly rising ratio of people and circumstances that make me feel totally worthLess and utterly ridicuLess in front of the world.

They say that in order for me to feel less Less, I need focus. That I cannot walk around without a clue in my head about what to do with my life. That I need to set targets, aims, goalposts, milestones, deadlines, ends of the road, destinations. And move towards one of the above, before it leaves me thoroughly confused about which road to take.

They say I need purpose. That everything I do must have some meaning to it. That the world has meaning. That nature, nations, nincompoops, love, laughter, leeches, armenians, art, arteriosclerosis, science, sledgehammers, sycophants, serial killers, even the birds and the bees, they all have meaning. And that I just cannot spend six and a half hours on getting a painfully beautiful tattoo that doesn’t say anything about me.

They say I need money. That I cannot spend long hours at work, doing what I like best and be satisfied with what I get. That it’s the age of asking for and even demanding more than what I deserve just because innumerable incompetent imbeciles are drawing more salaries than I’d ever earn in a lifetime. That it’s not about survival anymore, but about acquiring apartments, cars, expensive holidays, wealth and the wrath of our neighbours. That if I am not rich and famous by the time I am thirty, I should either resort to pretending that I am rich and famous or that I ain’t thirty yet.

They say I am not aggressive enough. That doing my work quietly is not sufficient until I shout out from leaking rooftops that I am doing my work. That humility and silence mean stupidity and snobbery, in that order. That I should have been born in the 70s and that I am just not smart enough to keep up with this speedy world.

They say I am not good enough. All the time. Always making me feel Less and Less good about myself.

And when they’ve said it all, they say I need a baby.

But they just don’t let me be. And what I am is a drifter. A nomad. A bohemian. A rolling stone. An offbeat tune. With no ambitions. No aim. No meaning. No purpose. No passions. No opinions. No biases. No qualms. No hassles. No greed. No hatred. And no intentions of making babies.

All I really have is a mind that is open to anything the world throws at me. And a heart that is a sucker for the people I love and the profession I love. But it seems that's not enough. It seems there’s more to life than just giving.

So while I blindly listen to everyone around me, I begin to live their lives too. Because that’s what they want. They want me to see what they see, taste what they taste, feel what they feel, live the way they do.

Perhaps that’s why I feel so inadequate. In this tug-of-war with the world, I have become so elastic, that I’ve forgotten the touch of my own skin. I’ve lost my sense of self. I’ve lost my spirit. I’ve lost my innocence. I’ve lost hope. I feel like I am living with something missing. In a vacuum. Somewhere between the stranglehold of suppression and the open arms of expression. It’s leaving me so empty, I’ve forgotten about the part of me that makes me me.

But I know it’s only a matter of time before I get back on track. Before I turn a deaf ear to the world, turn over and go to sleep. Before I go back to being myself again.

And when I do, I will know that the more we long for, the Less we live.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet

There used to be a time when that was the best line we copywriters could come up with. Probably because no one really knew what it meant.

This is dummy copy. That’s the closest we got to saying it in the language we knew. Layout after layouts came and went, with beautifully set text in just the right amount of space required of the body copy. Which had only one thing to say. This is dummy copy.

But we didn’t stop there. We wrote good dummy copy. We filled ads and brochures and annual reports with inane gobbledygook. Absolute mumbo jumbo that alternated between erudite prose and dreamy poetry. Before it staggered back to drivel that could drive any Copy Supe up the wall.

The good thing about putting our hearts (Not our souls. We had cut them into little pieces and sold it to the group head, the creative director, the account executive, the client servicing director, the media executive, the branch head, the research agency, the hundreds of housewives in fake focus groups, the brand manager, the big client and the big client’s wife who has the final word.) into writing nonsense was, that no one read it. It was a secret that only copywriters shared, while exchanging silent smiles when we bumped into each other on our way in and out of the creative know-it-all director’s cabin.

Besides, it acted as a secret weapon in our endless battle against the suits. So that when they insisted on telling us what to write, we could thrust our personal masterpieces in front of their eyes and mumble meekly (when we were actually dancing the tappankoothu), “You turned a blind eye to this. Smirk. So why should it matter what goes into the ad? Smirk. Smirk.”

But at the end of the day, we wrote so much dummy copy that we finally figured how to write. It was the one thing that kept us living. When as trainees, we weren’t supposed to have lives. ‘Cos we were scummier than the black muck stuck between the nail on the little toe on the left foot of anyone else in the agency. When after hours and hours of proof checking actual ads and brochures and annual reports, our sight went so wonky, that the only way to get it back on track was by staring at the black muck stuck between the nail on the little toe on the left foot of anyone else in the agency.

I chanced upon “lorem ipsum dolor sit amet” after many moons and I almost began to think the art of writing dummy copy has died. But on second thoughts, methinks it’s in fact a thriving business.

It's called blogging.

To blog or not to blog.

My answer was no. For a long time. And I found plenty of reasons to keep away.

Blog? Nah. I don’t blog.

In a very nose-up-in-the-air, I-don’t-believe-in-doing-what-everyone-does sort of way. Or like it was something my mom did and I didn’t want to be thought of as oh-so-last-generation. And so dissent met commentary and I resorted to violent dysentery every time someone even whispered blog.

Blogism. Solipsism. Not my cuppa teaism.

I believed blogging was a self-induced need in everyone to satisfy one’s self-indulgence. A “read-me, read-me” phenomenon, which I didn’t want no part of. I was not pro-publicity. I never was. And I wasn’t going to turn into some extroverted over-the-top self-obsessed pseudo-significant egotist all of a sudden.

Anyone with any sense in their heads doesn’t blog.

The pages and pages of limitless word-spewing. The hours and hours of mind-speaking. The raving. The ranting. The mind-numbing. The mind-fucking. Why would a sensible bloke waste so much energy? And where does he find so much time to waste?

Me? I am too passive. Dispassionate. I read. But I don’t have a Catcher in the Rye to swear by. I watch plenty of movies. But frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. I couldn’t be bothered about what ate Gilbert’s grape, who framed Roger rabbit and where all the copywriters have gone. And I wasn’t going to pretend it mattered.

But that’s only what it all sounded like. Truth be told, it was the exact opposite. I didn’t think I was too big for a blogger’s shoes. No. In fact, I thought I was micro-tiny. Too insignificant. A mini maggot in blogmire. Such a small speck, I might as well not exist.

More than anything, I was too shy to speak my mind. What if no one liked what I wrote? What if people thought I couldn’t write? What if I begin to question my living as a writer? What if? What if? There were too many self-denying what ifs, Goliaths and holy cows out there. And they scared the shit out of me.

Then it struck me. I am not here to make a point. I am not here to be read. And I have no intention to make this public. At least, not yet.

So, I choose to remain a small speck. Like that tree in the forest that fell when no one heard it, I am here to write about nothing. And for no one. So do I exist at all?

That’s for me to decide. But now, I have a new fear to face every day. And a new face to fear when I look at the blog-me in the mirror.