How many times have we all answered the question “Why do you write?”
The answer is supposed to get easier over time. But I find that things turn complicated when I try to simplify the answer.
Its probably got to do with the fact that a lot of indescribable emotions and thoughts cloud my mind, making expression difficult. Tell me something.. How do you explain to someone what goes through your mind when you eat your favourite dish? How do you put a thought or feeling across and ensure that the other person comprehends or experiences it in its entirety? Because I don’t know.
Maybe this sounds a little lame. Maybe this sounds like another futile attempt to describe a writer’s inner dilemma without really answering the question.
Maybe that is what it is.
I could sit here all day writing poetic lines about how every alphabet in the English language is a friend. And maybe I would mess that up too.
But, that’s okay.
I don’t write because I want a thousand people to read what I write. I don’t want to become famous or get quoted. I don’t even think I want to write a book.
All I know is I want to write for myself. I write for all those moments in my life when I want to pen down and immortalise what goes on my mind. It could be a moment when I feel like a poet, or one when it rains and the world is painted red when I look around. Maybe it could be after I have had the shittiest day at work and I just want to distract myself from reality. It could be when I look around and see some beautiful stories dressed up as people going about their lives. It could be this and infinite other things.
That’s what it is. I want to write because writing is a journey and a destination by itself. I love how music takes me places while I sit here in my corner and words paint pictures effortlessly. Oh.. and another beautiful thing about songs? Those words were once written by somebody who felt something deeply too..
Right.. So that’s been fifteen minutes of free-writing a.k.a release of inner turmoil. I obviously haven’t re-organised my thoughts as this was written in response to the prompt shared by the Blogging University Team as part of Finding Everyday Inspiration.
Now that you have patiently read my piece of writing, let me know what makes you write in the comments below. Oh yeah! Thank you for reading. 🙂
I always loved magic.
Like a rabbit out of a hat,
You popped into my life.
Entranced, I awed and cheered
As you turned my life into a circus.
You became the master, I the clown.
Every time you shut me up
In a box and split me into pieces,
Except you needed no sword, just words.
After what seemed like endless stunts
And performances, you end the show
With a disappearing act.
Onlookers gasp and applaud,
While I just stand here with bated breath.
Come hold my hand.
When the worst times tide over us,
And when the world seems bleak
With no ray of hope,
Let our smiles disperse in our lives
a thousand splendid colors.
I know a time may come,
When your hand shall
No longer clasp mine.
When your life shall
Not remain interwoven with mine.
But today, let me be.
Allow me some time,
To cherish you, to embrace you.
To thank my stars, for
Bringing me to you.
As we stand wondering
What tomorrow may bring,
As we seek answers hiding cleverly
From all our questions,
Stand by my side.
Come hold my hand.
You were always an artist.
From the music that flowed when you spoke to me,
To the dreams of a future you painted
On the canvas that was my life.
Now, all I hear is a melancholy – your voice
Playing in my mind.
Sleep is today, but a distant dream.
You are a book I keep reading. Where every page unveils a new story. And just when I think I have finished reading the book, you pull out new pages that I did not know were missing.
As darkness descends onto us after a long summer day, let us take a stroll on the beach. The waves could wash away the masks that we have been wearing all day long and we could be us – the real you and me. Maybe we could just let all hell break loose and watch as our demons dance with one another’s.
Does it happen to you? Does an indescribable sorrow fill your soul and make you want to write when you least expect it?
Where you want to find the exact word that explains what you are feeling and put it down on paper. Where you want someone to understand what you are trying you write, find the perfect word and finish your sentence for you. But it just doesn’t happen.
It’s a weird kind of loneliness that few will understand. Where you stand surrounded by your own kind, yet feel like there’s something missing. A longing that’s unfulfilled. Like when you know all your alphabets and words, yet you can’t pen it down. You know you want to write, but you just can’t. You sit there staring at the wall clock or the back of people’s heads. Waiting for that moment when something magical will hit you and all the right words will flow.