What for?

When I was setting up this site, I made 3 other sides to accompany it. One for educational content, another for music theory, discussion and writings, and the last one for writings of all sorts. And still, as humans are miscellaneous creatures, I created a 4th site. It had always been about the fourth site. It was for myself. Just for myself. Nothing fancy, no seasoning, no satin finishes, no confetti -- just some space. And a way to write on it. I named it 'BeBlunt Boi'. The Boi component of BeBlunt. Where my, Boi's, thoughts would belong. Solely.

After that, as systemic ideas flooded in and other stuff got me busy, the necessity of a separate site for my mind's very own private fodder fizzled. In many ways, the uncategorized fodder of my mind itself fizzled.

Of late, things have gotten complex. The need to write has arrived back once again. Hence I am here. Not without considerable deliberations though. I reconsidered again and again if I wanted to write here. It is somewhat linked (through my Blogger profile) to my other sites. It is discoverable in that sense.

I finally decided, yes. I wanted to write here.

The point is not about writing here or writing there. I have always made an unnecessary hassle by trying to organize things before they are realized. This is harmful foresight (or the attempt at so). Until something blooms in its entirety -- a writing, a sketch, an equation, a project -- it is impossible to have a good clue of its direction, genre and utility. As such it cannot be shelved -- not at all when it is in the process of being made.

What is this site for? I am not sure. It used to be casual at one point, but then it became detectable and I stopped posting all writings on it. But given that the need for writing has arrived once again, I am hoping this site will rejuvenate. In any case, this site does not matter -- at least not the most of all.

One problem I face with writing (as a subset of 'everything', literally) is compulsiveness. I abstain from writing and I pull off days, weeks, even months of dormancy. But then something eventful happens and I am compelled to write. Then I start writing. And I just go on. I write through the cause. after the cause and well after the last signs of the existence of the cause. At one point, I am writing just because words flow, the ink of a certain pen is too good, or I am just too stuck in the habit.

Habit -- that's exactly what it is. And weakness, on my part. I cannot resist the comfort of familiarity. I cannot bear the shock of stumbling across something new. I have to deal with it. I have to make optimal rules for it. I cannot forego such curational efforts. I would like to devise optimal patterns of dealing with everything -- or just not confront such things to which I cannot formulate rules. I would like repetition and would like to predict the pattern in the same. Then I would like to automate the response to repetitive behaviour. This has always been my tendency.

New things are fundamentally scary for some people. It is not the same for me. I like newness, but not chaos. Unpredictability occassional is a bliss -- regular a suffering -- and eternal a curse. I can deal with a month of monsoon, but at some point I just have to be out of love with it, I'm sorry. I need summer or winter then.

This is nothing surprising. Almost every person -- except those who addictively enjoy chaos -- enjoy an eventual resolution into order. However persistence varies across people. How long you can go without any sign of emergence of order, versus how long I can -- certainly varies.