His flatmate John Menezes told the media, “Sagar was really enthusiastic about this post. He had been asking me questions like how my grandfather had died, and where do I think he went. Yesterday night, he hanged himself. He just goes on to show that most bloggers are crackheads. He had last gone to a movie 3 years ago, and didn’t have a girlfriend. I told him he needed a life, but he chose death.”
I am proud of posting new blog posts, even if I know no one reads them. I spend a good portion of my day deliberating over ideas to write upon, then opening my post-edit mode, writing (the modern-day writing is nothing other than typing out, using computer keyboards), deleting a paragraph, re-writing, anxious and cautious over the reader’s probable reaction and impression, then finally hitting the “publish” button.
I am a blogger. My mind has bizarre forms of commitments and ambitions. My mind is preoccupied with stuff abnormal to a non-blogger like my friend John.
Another day, two years ago, I would have labelled the action of thinking and typing out stuff like that I do, as “madness”. But today I do that for reasons unknown. I blog for reasons unknown. When a friend of mine — who plays a hundred times more computer games in a week than the number of minutes he opens Facebook (or any other website — except perhaps the college website — a studious ghissu, just a variant of mine, I feel) in a year — asks me what I do on the internet, I don’t know what to say. I know he can’t understand my insane reasons behind and urgency of posting something new.
In my mind, I am proud to call them “fans”, even though they add me on Facebook because they are my old school friends. Hold on, I am not a celebrity. I know they don’t give a shit about who Sagar is. But then, my brain loves to believe that they do.
Acquaintances ask me how many people visit my blog. I multiply the figure by hundred and tell them a decent figure. I think, just as you shouldn’t ask a man his income and a woman her age, you ought not to ask a blogger his blog hits.
I love to look busy. I love to look important. I am a blogger.
A crazy weird hobby — an exercise that doesn’t pay, doesn’t serve. An exercise that makes me fatter (sitting on the computer for long hours, without getting up, will add fat to my tummy, so say my family members). But a passion, nonetheless.
(Full diary entry | Read here — originally posted by the author on October 4, 2010)