I'm sure nearly everyone has experienced periods, at one time or another, of sudden acute depression without any apparent reason. For some, these periods last for days. For others, a few hours. For those who don't fall into the previous two categories, the periods can vary. I am of the last type.
Recently, I have had a short period in which I was overwhelmed by such a feeling. I was desperately calling friends and trying to find someone to talk to, afraid that my state may become worse as it has in the past, and I may start shaking. After finally getting hold of a friend, I was able to speak for a short time, until she had to go. Again, alone with my thoughts, I was at a loss. For the sake of something to do, I began cleaning and organizing my room, and stumbled upon an old journal. I began reading through this, laughed at my previous naivety, and soon felt much more calm and stable. I suppose that is one of the advantages to saving old thoughts and writings. That reminds me...I left my journal unattented. I should go hide it again...
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A Beginning
I had become, by necessity, a story-teller. I was always one to love stories. I could spend hours upon hours reading any book I could possibly get my hands on. By the time I finished elementary school, it had become an addiction. I would have a book with me, at all times, wherever I went. To make this more practical, I would wear coats with enormous pockets, in which I would store the book, well out of sight. Otherwise, I would carry a small purse, though I am not one to carry purses (never have been), so that I may be able to keep my book with me.
Yet, greater than my love of books was my love of hearing stories. Unfortunately for me, there weren't many story-tellers around. My father is more or less the silent type. My sister is not the story-telling type either. She has no patience. My brother-in-law, though he seems to like talking, is a horrible story-teller. When he gets started on one, I'm desperately looking for a way to escape. My brother would rather hear stories from me than tell one himself. Only my mother took time every now and then to indulge me in a tale.
My brother and I, having this lack of story-tellers in our lives, decided to compensate by having one of us tell stories. Ofcourse, him being as stubborn and lazy as he sometimes can be, that one had to be me. The times we would engage in this activity the most were during train journeys back and forth between Dhaka and Sylhet. This was before the bus system became efficient and took away all the fun.
On the train, we would rent a private cabin (I'm not sure if that's the right word, but I like it) for our family to occupy, and generally pick a departure time so that part of the journey would be carried on at night. The moment darkness fell, my brother would climb up onto a bunk suspended over the regular seats. I, with more difficulty than my monkey of a brother, would climb up after him. We would ask our parents, seated below us, to pass up snacks, and then the story-telling would begin.
I regret to say I don't consider myself to be much of a story-teller. The stories told to my brother were the ones from the numerous books I had read. A few rare times when, having told a part of a story but suddenly forgetting the rest, I desperately searched for inspiration and ended the story with whatever idea came to me. During these times, my brother would either burst out laughing, or show annoyance at having been told such a horrible story. Besides these few occasions, though, he rarely commented on my story-telling; neither good nor bad. He only demanded to hear more. Now that I think back on it, I find it very strange that my brother, a person who would never give up an opportunity to make fun of me and only offered a positive word when I was extremely upset, would keep silent.
I do miss those times; and I miss my brother even more. After I left, I stopped telling stories. There's no one to tell it to. Now, I feel I have lost what little skill I may have had in telling tales. My recent development of stuttering made it all the more difficult when trying to relate an event to someone. Luckily, the written word doesn't allow such weaknesses. I had been asked for a while now, to write a historical story, more or less a combined biography, regardless of how long it may take. I had protested that I am not even near to skilled enough to write such a tale, but I am pushed all the same.
I will, soon, attempt to put that story onto paper(or rather, a computer screen), but before I attempt that task, I think I shall warm up with a bit of rambling on some recent issues.
Yet, greater than my love of books was my love of hearing stories. Unfortunately for me, there weren't many story-tellers around. My father is more or less the silent type. My sister is not the story-telling type either. She has no patience. My brother-in-law, though he seems to like talking, is a horrible story-teller. When he gets started on one, I'm desperately looking for a way to escape. My brother would rather hear stories from me than tell one himself. Only my mother took time every now and then to indulge me in a tale.
My brother and I, having this lack of story-tellers in our lives, decided to compensate by having one of us tell stories. Ofcourse, him being as stubborn and lazy as he sometimes can be, that one had to be me. The times we would engage in this activity the most were during train journeys back and forth between Dhaka and Sylhet. This was before the bus system became efficient and took away all the fun.
On the train, we would rent a private cabin (I'm not sure if that's the right word, but I like it) for our family to occupy, and generally pick a departure time so that part of the journey would be carried on at night. The moment darkness fell, my brother would climb up onto a bunk suspended over the regular seats. I, with more difficulty than my monkey of a brother, would climb up after him. We would ask our parents, seated below us, to pass up snacks, and then the story-telling would begin.
I regret to say I don't consider myself to be much of a story-teller. The stories told to my brother were the ones from the numerous books I had read. A few rare times when, having told a part of a story but suddenly forgetting the rest, I desperately searched for inspiration and ended the story with whatever idea came to me. During these times, my brother would either burst out laughing, or show annoyance at having been told such a horrible story. Besides these few occasions, though, he rarely commented on my story-telling; neither good nor bad. He only demanded to hear more. Now that I think back on it, I find it very strange that my brother, a person who would never give up an opportunity to make fun of me and only offered a positive word when I was extremely upset, would keep silent.
I do miss those times; and I miss my brother even more. After I left, I stopped telling stories. There's no one to tell it to. Now, I feel I have lost what little skill I may have had in telling tales. My recent development of stuttering made it all the more difficult when trying to relate an event to someone. Luckily, the written word doesn't allow such weaknesses. I had been asked for a while now, to write a historical story, more or less a combined biography, regardless of how long it may take. I had protested that I am not even near to skilled enough to write such a tale, but I am pushed all the same.
I will, soon, attempt to put that story onto paper(or rather, a computer screen), but before I attempt that task, I think I shall warm up with a bit of rambling on some recent issues.
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