On: Passionate Illusions
This article is best enjoyed whilst listening to the song "Oh. Bury Me Not (Introduction: A Cowboy's Prayer) by Johnny Cash https://youtu.be/x8Ob97dkzGY
One thing no one tells you about being passionate is how much of it depends, not on willpower but on illusions. In time you find out that a truly passionate person is one who is willing to choose the constant allure of illusions over anything else. And when those illusions die, the reality that confronts one can be mind-numbing.
I once was passionate about a lot of stuff, writing for one. I remember how excited I was to publish my first novel. It was intoxicating. I'd spend days on end fantasizing about the reception I’d get when the book was out. About how my social circle would change drastically, owing to the fact that as a published author, I could now be seated amongst the JK Rowlings' of the world and not feel out of place. I would daydream about being on a podium accepting an award for my literary prowess, being asked by a hoard of reporters why one of my characters acted this way or that way or if any of them were based on real people. In this daydream, I would playfully avoid the question because my assistant had just, minutes before, whispered in my ears that I had to catch the next flight to New York for another interview. Oh, the beauty of such illusions! Literally, in the months leading up to when my book eventually got published, my illusions had basically crafted another story in my head that made the event of being a published author feel so surreal and otherwordly.
Then it happened.
I got my book published. I got copies. The first two days to two weeks, I slept with a copy, feeling so proud and prepared for the barrage of orders that would come in. I felt excited in anticipation of the interview I was soon to get by a leading literary body, where I could make some funny quips that would make the host laugh and call me “cool”. I told my friends about this feat. They cheered me and I felt a comforting warmth. I felt a tiny bit of pride because I knew I was going to feel much more of it when in a few weeks it won't only be the warm messages from my friends to cheer me but adulation from the world. So I waited. And while waiting, I tweeted, posted on Instagram, used my WhatsApp status; propagating the news of my soon-to-be unveiling to the world, in the little way I knew I could. “In time,” I told myself, “...in time the world would come running to my feet, eager to speak to me.” The writer whose story crafting ability was unmatched; a man who was able to merge the divine and the mundane into a tale of love and loss and not skip a beat whilst detailing the truism of life.
So, I waited.
One week turned to two weeks. I got a couple of friends and acquaintances to buy copies, and some were kind enough to offer their sincere reviews, others not bothering as much to even acknowledge having read it. I seethed at the thought; fumed even: how could people be inconsiderate like that? You get a book and can't even read it or say something about it. How? But my illusions were still intact so I was able to comfort myself in the hope that the world - the bigger stage - would soon be knocking at my feet to celebrate the greatness that all of these muggle-blooded friends and acquaintances could barely grasp because their minds were too closed off to the magic that was my writing.
Another week passed. And another after it. Slowly a copy of my book stopped sharing a bed with me. It moved to the nightstand next to the bed. But my illusion remained intact. I was soon to be unveiled as the next big thing in the literary world and nothing, not even the short attention span of the present age could stop that. In these waiting moments, I'd get a request for a copy of the book - a friend or an acquaintance of a friend - and it would easily beef up the excitement in my veins. Another reader is always welcome. So, I'd send a copy, and more often than not, once received, that would be the end of it from the buyer. No reviews. No thoughts. But my illusions would remain. In my head, I would say to myself “Acquaintances and friends matter little when the real world would soon envision the genius of my work.”
Another month passed. And then another. And by this time, a copy of the book would no longer be on the nightstand. It would be back in the pile of copies sent to me by my publishers. At this point, the illusion has begun to fracture. It's been months and the world was yet to be at my feet begging to meet the literary genius that was me. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram had no dedicated movements to my book - no hashtags discussing the inner workings of my storytelling abilities. I would stay up late thinking about what next to do but nothing short of fear would creep over me as the fracture of my illusions continued to expand. There would be no more friends or acquaintances making requests for copies. And it would be at that moment that the illusions would crumble in totality as I’d slowly come to the realization that the world (whatever I assumed it to be) wasn’t coming.
I believe it was at that moment of my illusions crumbling that I understood why to those who are truly passionate about anything, the world shouldn't exist. Nothing breaks the illusion of passion faster than the reality of how inconsequential your life, hopes, and dreams are in the grand scheme of things. Indeed, we need the world and those in it to appraise, critique, and adore what our creative minds have passionately doled out. This sort of acceptance is something we all crave. Being successful is both a result of what you do and how people perceive what you do. And in the world of passionate ideas, we can't shy away from the fact that when we tell stories or create stories in some form or the other, whether fictional or grounded in realism, we hope, deep down, that the world comes to our feet to bare witness. At least that's what our passionate illusions hope for and as long as these illusions hold up, we are able to push through each dreary day or moment, carefully guided by the hope of a future where the stars align and the world pays obeisance to us. But if for any reason these illusions were to be fractured and broken, as mine had been, we suddenly become real - grounded in the truth of our invisibility to the world at large.
My book was published in December 2020 and it's been almost eight months since I had my illusions broken. I still have a pile of copies sitting on a chair at my work table and occasionally, I’d pick up a copy, stare at it, flip through the pages and then put it back down. In that moment of looking at it, I would be reminded, fondly, of the illusions that once pushed me to make that leap and go for broke. And for a brief moment, I’d smile and feel a wave of hope sweep through my veins. The illusions would seep back into my subconscious again slowly, and whisper ever so slightly "...the world is still on its way to your feet".
And it's a comforting whisper, I cannot deny this, especially having heard tales of writing talents whose geniuses were overlooked for the longest time until eventually, it happened. But as my mind slowly attempts to begin laying the foundation to build back these illusions, a jolt of reality would hit me and I’d ask the question to myself "what illusion could be better than the reality of a dreary existence?"
In a way, I'd like to think I am still very passionate about life and living, even if I may not be the most alive at each passing moment of it. I am passionate about family and friends and the many other vices of “being” that accompany the sometimes suffocating bliss of humanity. So, in all this may be the destruction of the illusions of my passion in itself is an illusion, and maybe I am still hounded, subconsciously, by the ever so seductive whispers that say: "...the world is still on its way to your feet."
Oh, the beauty of such illusions!