Backseat blues

Recently, I learnt that a little girl whom I have watched growing up had become a soon-to-be published novel writer. Trisha is the daughter of a very close friend of mine. In fact when she was born, I appointed myself her godmother. We share a lovely relationship. Sometimes I find I can speak to her like a friend. I wish her all the best with her latest endeavour.
But this incident reminded me of a secret wish of mine. I too wanted to be a writer at one time. I guess I just did not have the necessary spark. I wrote a lot of diaries about my daily and other experiences in my teenage and young adulthood. Most of those diaries I once destroyed in a sudden fit of disgust. Some remain, of not much worth. What hurts is that the present state of my life has so crippled me that I do not even write diaries.
Thoughts that come and go in my mind simply fizzle out without taking shape or character. One needs exposure to be able to think fresh thoughts. The brains resources have to be periodically replenished for it to become fertile and creative. Any interesting episodes took place in my life maybe ten years ago. Anything new I read or came across or experienced was maybe an age ago. My thought processes seem to be caught in a whirlpool of domestic mediocrity. Every morning I wake up to a crippling worry of how I will get through this day. Will the domestic helps turn up? Will I be able to go to work today? Will I be able to get Mistu ready on time for her school bus. I perspire and feel ill and nervous. I get things done on time all right. But I wish all the time that this were not the daily round for me.
Not so many months ago, I started this blog, with the optimism that from time to time I would be able to record my thoughts in it, and allow those who so wish to take a look. Blogs are a wonderful invention. They can be private and public at the same time. The subject matter that you are writing on may not be stuff that novels are made of, yet they can be a truly literary exercise if one chooses the subject to write on with discretion and then express it in a pleasant manner. It would somewhat fulfill the wish to be a writer.
But even my blog writing seems to have taken a backseat to domestic hassles. I cannot understand why I am allowing this state of affairs. Why have I become this piece of sod?
Both home and place of employment do not seem to match up to my expectations. At home I am the multi-tasking woman, in college I am the good-for-nothing academic. I neither take trouble over the lectures I am to deliver any more, nor do I bother with any other creative activities with the students. I am the typically burnt-out case. No more new thoughts, no enthusiasm, no looking forward to anything. There are at least 13 working years in my life and I can’t imagine how I will get through them. There are that many and more years to my life and I don’t have the foggiest as to how I will get through them.
Time for some inward searching. After all we cannot control our circumstances, but we can control our response to them.