Most writers these days tend to ruminate about the insanely fast paced life that we are thrust into. It is definitely a stark reality that we, the creative people are faced with. With the advent of Artificial Intelligence (AI), everything seems to have become even more unrealistic and hallucinatory. Very recently, while scanning through some videos on YouTube, I noticed that AI is already in the process of dominating at least 60 percent (if not more) of online content these days. This has led to the creation of a strange world online where most videos and content tend to create an atmosphere of illusion. One cannot distinguish what is true from false. I maybe looking at a particular scenery and admiring the same for a substantial period of time, only to discover that it is unreal and has been created by AI. The world, in addition to being fast paced is now becoming increasingly unreal. And already academic thinkers all over the world have started talking about the dangers posed by AI to our human civilization and intellect.

This is perhaps where the slowness of being and becoming is extremely relevant these days. We have truly lost out on the good old days of slow living when letters and/or emails were more important than messages and where books and literature were more important than content creation. Perhaps those most affected by this need for spreed are the writers and other creative people like the painters, the musicians, the sculptors etc. Anything that requires time and patience is probably looked down upon these days. There is a terrible need to accomplish much within a short span of time. There is also an insane need to be “appreciated” and “discovered” by the internet within a minute period of one’s life. We must all have social media accounts (because having websites and blogs is now unfashionable). We must publish two or more books in one year, have book launching ceremonies, give interviews on our Facebook and/or Instagram accounts and in general do all that which qualifies us to be labeled as writers in this age of extroversion and extravagance.

But what about the slowness of being? What about relishing each moment and then captivating the same on paper? What about solitude (that which has historically been considered to be a sacred haven for writers)? Why must we rush and run and scramble with the world? Why must our phones vibrate and chime at intervals with messages and texts that are of no consequence? Why must we, the writers, be compelled to forge multiple contacts an connections in order to maintain our status in society? And why must the world reeling under its own unending cacophony drag us down to its chaotic depths, thus in the process, pilfering our much needed slowness of being? I do not have all answers, but I have one definite belief that slowness is indeed a blessing. That enjoying the intricacies of life is the basic right of every writer. And that cultivating a slow, languorous life is what makes us blossom and flourish like delicate flowers.