A Battered Portmanteau

I’ve always considered myself to be average. Nothing specially different or special. Childhood, adolescence, early adulthood never did anything to dispel that certainty with which I was born. I used to have a diary of sorts inside my head, where words would automatically transcribe themselves- my life, my thoughts, writ on the blank pages of memory for easy cataloguing and later access.
I did not know that not everyone does that.
Playing with words always came easy to me. I did not know that people could actually struggle to frame a simple sentence- in any language, not necessarily English. I wrote my first verses (in honour of a friend’s birthday) when I was about eight. And back then, I never wondered that no one else in my class could conjure up a rhyme in their heads, and pin thought down onto paper.
No, I am not anything extraordinary.
But yes, I can write. It is the one thing that distinguishes me from the millions walking the pimpled streets of Calcutta. It is the one thing I am good at.
This is me. This is my identity.
A battered portmanteau. What I call my online portfolio.
Where reposes matter not open for public view. Not for copyright purposes. Not for any ostensible purpose. Just secret.
A tiny record of my love affair with words.
Words, only words. My soul is etched in shades of black, white and the deepest cyan inks.
And sometimes, all that remain are they. Words.
I like words. Any language, any context. Texts and subtexts. Words. How they twist and turn, and make sense- or nonsense.
I roll highway haiku in my mouth with the dregs of random experiences. And whistle impressions of consciousness on the jasmine scented tropical air.
I have been told that not too many understand me. My concepts of thingification, for one. My interior monologues and latent sensuality for another. And yet, I write, not attempting to modify or adapt myself.
Is this a weakness in me? Perhaps it is. And yet, when thought transcribes itself into language, a drastic process of simplification takes place. Are then, my words twice removed from reality? But my art is not mimetic. And every act of creation leaves me spent and dissatisfied. I feel flat, like day old soda.
No, I cannot simplify myself any more. Let me then, find a niche audience for my words. Before I turn into a verbose solipsist. “I and my ideas alone exist…�