This was my answer when Gagan asked me if I had started my blog. Several weeks ago I had badgered him to be told how to. We caught up on chat late one night, he sent me the link and I excitedly plunged into discovering blogger.com

As explained, that was a while past.

So when he followed up on his natural curiosity all I could stumble upon for response was this very poetic, airy but completely useless cover for laziness.

It sounded pompously philosophical at its best.

And worst.

I procrastinate to a fault.

To put off things is my modus operandi of life.

“A late bloomer” I call myself.

To know is an incurable disease with me. I have to know, to find out, to be told, to be answered. Once the unknown has been revealed, it is just another stone crossed on my journey, a page read and turned over.

I frisk through stuff in a hurry, then leave off, sit back gazing and mulling over it for a span before tiring to sleep. Literally. To act another day is the invariable conclusion, my favourite.

I cannot make a kill, like one of the tigers in Kenneth Anderson’s wildlife book I’m reading, I cannot lunge onto the back of a prey and snap its neck. Resolution to the end is not my breed.

But I digress.

There is something about blogging which is uncomfortably perverse. Like the lifting of the skirt before an audience. And done under coercion, mind, not any pleasure of exhibitionism, too.

For there is gratification to be gained in display, some would say. I have seen many a human live through their years in the appreciation of another, lapping up praise and flattery with equal aplomb, not knowing one from the other nor caring to. One sees such specimens abound in Facebook or Orkut. I could laugh at some of the updates if they were not so condemnably pretentious. Human penchant for second hand living is astonishing.

I am painfully shy and somewhat vain when it comes to sharing my thoughts. I have been accused of snobbery in the past, of looking down my nose, of speaking as if from a high moral ground.

I protest innocence here.

It is just the opposite thought that has kept me so long from blogging – I worry about proselytising to the world. Or appearing to. I am burdened by the anxiety of influence and am anxious to not weigh another fellow being down with the ludicrous crops of my mental cauldron. Who’d read what I have to say? Why should they?

Why should my personal ideas be a matter of any importance to any reader?

Blimey.

I remain stumped. Till tomorrow.