Fickle

When you read someone’s blog and realise you have your own things to say and that might get a bit longer than an average comment and start writing your own post fueled by what they wrote, will that be considered as stealing the ideas? I am not so sure. In fact I was planning to write a post on self-harming tendencies to creep the fuck out of your souls my dear readers. But then here I am, writing on concentration (or the lack of it) and my list of excuses for it.

Let’s first start with concentration. The first para contains approx 92 words and within that I checked whatsapp twice, reacted to a Paolo Coelho quote, checked facebook once and changed song on the playlist. Yes, most of the times I type with my headphones stuck into my malfunctioning earholes. Wait, maybe I need to eat a little chocolate and drink some water before I can sit and organise my words. Not to mention the water intake will lead me to reluctantly clamber off the bed and walk out of the door in another ten minutes or so. But to be very honest I have never been very proud of my concentrating abilities. You may ask what I am proud of anyway. Sadly, nothing. Over the years the world and its people have helped me on that one with utmost consistency. Every morning I look into the mirror and see a blunt-nosed, acne-prone, sour faced, humanoid version of failure and self-loathing staring back at me through its sleepy eyes. Not dead yet? Ah, whatever. But of my countless numbers of failures, being a fickle minded, borderline ADHD person will be on the upper part of the list. I spent my entire childhood, adolescence and adulthood wandering off into the imaginary world inside my brain. Especially at class rooms. Or even at meetings, big or small. You sit with me and start talking for more than five minutes at a stretch. I am gone. I will still be sitting in front of you nodding along. But I actually am somewhere else. Do not think I am some genius thinking about something very deep and noble. I am probably thinking about the dress I saw on this Instagram page or why that dog didn’t look back at me even though I was being nice to it. Don’t take it personally; I don’t necessarily think you are boring. But I am what I am.

However, I feel my ability to concentrate fluctuates a lot. For example, I do not go for writing multiple drafts for any of my blog posts. I do not have any notebook where I write down ideas for upcoming posts. The words start to come one by one, form a queue and before they start jostling into each other creating utter mayhem I apologise to them for being a procrastinator and sit and start typing. In an hour or so my post is done and ready to be published. Instant gratification achieved. (I know they are not very good quality ones but what more can you expect from a low quality person like me?) And surprisingly, once I am in the driver’s seat my concentration hardly fluctuates. Memes, Paolo Coelho quotes and equally loser best friends can wait for another hour. Here is another interesting fact – when I write driven solely by sadness or anger I write better and my mind never wanders off. It’s the happiness that always makes me crippled. Irony, huh?

Same happens when it comes to books. Give me any Agatha Christie book and I will finish it in a day. I couldn’t touch Magpie Murders for first fifteen days after buying it because I knew I was going to devour it in a matter of a day or two. More on this book later. Right now I have left three books unfinished just because I simply cannot concentrate. Whenever I am thinking of it I am feeling guilty like I am avoiding pending homework or an ex whom I broke up with over email. But I know this, that one fine morning or evening or late night I will get this magic dose of motivation and sit and finish what I have left unfinished.

I know this one person whose instant reaction to any sort of complaining or whining is, but what have you done to overcome it? I go completely blank in response and begin to stutter. Truth is, I don’t have solutions for half the problems in my life. Some are owing to my sheer stupidity and failure at being a fully functioning adult. But some are just a part of my nature; they are with me since my birth like my loyal, best buddies. So I have found consolation in articles that claim that having a hyperactive mind is a sign of being too intelligent and sensitive. So far the effect of such ego boost has done well for me.

The sour-faced, sad eyed person in the mirror sniggered at me just now.