I want to write, I want to write till I cant write no more. Sometimes I feel like all I need is a little inspiration and sometimes I feel like I just want to lock up all my thoughts in a little box as the days go by and then suddenly open it one night. I want this little box to explode into a master piece. Not a book, not a poem but a thoughtful evocative essay that has no boundaries. No space limit, no dead line, just a beautiful explosion that surpasses time and space. And then I want to do this experiment over and over again until my whole life becomes a series of masterpieces exploding on unpredictable nights. On the nights when I question my wit, and the nights when I feel like I cant write one word without erasing it.
I don’t want to waste time finding the better synonym of a word, or fixing spelling mistakes. I just want to let everything out regardless of how it comes out.
I want to reach the end of my life and be able to answer one question “what did life mean to you”. I want to have the most personal and most humble answer.
Writing to me is what breathing is to other people. A writer isn’t a happy person that rarely spends time alone. A writer isn’t a person who people find it easy to be close to.
A writer has an eternal struggle inside that can only be freed with words. Not necessarily a physical struggle but just a struggle of two beings living in one body. Waking up some days feeling like not everything that happened the previous day with you was actually lived by you. Late at night you sit on a desk and unleash the second being inside because it’s the only way you can look at your life from outside.
Months can pass without one word written down, the compilation of thoughts and emotions is so overwhelming to the point where both beings inside the writer need consolation.
See a writer is both lucky and cursed.
Words are not always a source of comfort, sometimes they’re a source of grief. This little box that you hide away can contain things you don’t want to acknowledge, moments you want to forget. A writer never forgets, a writer writes.
Writing is what allows those burdens to wither away like a flower cut off from its roots. Words can hurt but once they are being written it’s like they are being snatched away from their roots and left there for time to bring about their deterioration.
But a writer never forgets.
The thoughts and emotions float away from within the box but freeing those thoughts can be as imprisoning as it is liberating. See, an average human being can bury a box deep inside his heart till it eats him out from the inside years later. But a writer never buries his words. Even when you’re incapable of writing, you still see words floating around your head. Awkward sentences, illogical riddles. Never does a single night pass by that a writer doesn’t playback certain moments in his head and builds up on them till the thin line between fiction and non-fiction becomes invisible.
We don’t know what’s real and what’s not. Even in our storytelling we like to add elements for effect and take away elements for mystery. We live in a different kind of universe. A universe where words are the currency and the economy is as unpredictable as it can be. Sometimes our minds is generous with words and sometimes it strips us away from the ability to find any word to express ourselves.
A writer isn’t always someone who can perfectly express himself. We have a lot going on inside. We are incapable of finding the correct words to say even if anyone who reads our words are immediately fascinated.
Knowledge is power, reason is the tool of enlightenment.
That’s what the modern world has studied the age of enlightenment to be. But to us, words are the power, words are our weapons. We don’t need reason as much as we need passion.
We can start an essay by talking about trees and conclude it with how alone the world we live in makes us feel. Our transitions are the wars inside our minds. It’s very difficult to find a way to move from one feeling to another. From one thought to another. Some of us spend time finding the perfect transition and some of us just move on not caring whether the audience is able to understand or not.
Im not writing to please, im writing to write.
I wait for nights like this every night. Some pray to God for food, some for money, and some for safety. I pray to God for words. They are my money, my food, my safety. They make me rich with self-expression, they are the nutrition to my soul, and the invisible walls around me protecting from some brutal realities.
Our words are our shields and our destroyers.
They are the most ironic and contradictory tools god has given us.
We can use them for good or for bad, for a talent or as a need.
What is so worthless to one, can be the treasure of another. Some people talk to talk, because it is in our nature, and some spend nights trying to find just one statement to begin with, now that’s in our nature too. Not in all our natures, just the writer’s nature.
The struggle to express oneself
I think to myself, it’s very difficult living in our world today without having some kind of release. A vacation somewhere, a trustworthy friend we can open up to completely. Some people have nothing, some people have both. And I have my diaries, my books, my pen.
When I write I am not sitting at my desk, and im not disclosing anything to a friend. I am somewhere far away from my physical brain and body. My soul and mind have traveled somewhere else, somewhere without a map, without responsibilities or stress-inducers. Just an empty place where one can simply float in space like listening to a Beethoven sonata.
Sometimes i drift away while writing and I notice the words on the page infront of me becoming blurry. At that point I acknowledge the fact that if I blink I can clarify what’s infront of me and continue writing but I don’t.
I take a few more seconds in the blurriness of my vision and the smudginess of my words. I take those seconds to think, to feel.
Why should I continue this piece? If anyone read this would they understand?
Then I blink and continue. It’s like a reality check because words can really set you off into a Fur Elise.
It doesn’t matter who understands this or who doesn’t because this isn’t for anyone or about anyone.
I wish I could write like I am writing a melody where at the end you listen to what you have composed and feel proud or notice where a flaw is and fix it.
But writing isn’t like that really. If I were to go over my writing, I would not feel proud and I would spend hours taking away and putting in different words. From this sense of continuous dissatisfaction, this continuous sense of underestimation stems the true motivation in our lives. This motivation that is more challenging than any other in this world because it eats you up inside.
This motivation can deprive you of sleep, can cause self-esteem issues. Now those consequences of the word motivation claim to be contradictory of the meaning of the word itself. But not everything that inspires is positive.
A writer is motivated by struggles, by challenges, by mistakes. Sometimes big mistakes and some times exaggerated mistakes.
Writing to us isn’t always as peaceful as watching the sunset from high up on a mountain. Sometimes it feels like racing against the sunset, like a drain of energy.
Sometimes it’s like falling in love.