Why is blue a boy's colour and why is pink a girl's colour? Who said so? Why on earth should it be this way? Ageing has few consolations but asking questions like these is one of them. Why is the weekend on Saturday and Sunday? Why isn't it on Sunday and Monday? Why don't we ask more of these questions? Why?
Is it perhaps because our society is focused on speed and performance? Are we always looking for the quickest path to achieve our goals? Should we not stop and ask why? But why, when writers and artists ask these questions are they often beset with self-doubt? What will other people think? Is my writing good enough? Why is it not good enough and who says so?
I was a child once. There is a child within us all, and as our bodies get older, like that of this author, the child will always remain, won't it? If not, where will it go and why?
Do we writers and artists care too much about what people think? For example, why do I use Facebook to give me encouragement? Wouldn't it be better to find out who can give me constructive feedback? Why don't I ask all those "why" questions I asked as a child? Can I regain that thirst for knowledge, for learning, for interpreting. What better way is there to think up plots by asking "Why" and "what if?" Why can't I trust my own judgement? Can you tell me why?
LONG time a child, and still a child, when years
Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I, —
For yet I lived like one not born to die;
A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,
No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.
But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,
I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking
The vanguard of my age, with all arrears
Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,
Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray,
For I have lost the race I never ran:
Comments