whelved.

"A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity."

[Letter to Max Brod, July 5, 1922]

Franz Kafka

Writing is oftentimes difficult.

No iam not referring it to the vocabulary or the right sentences that makes up a prose.

What I am stating here is that it gets difficult to live by when the tempest and the hellfire we carry around everyday, fails to be inked!

To sit still and stare at the empty page for a long time,  to hold the pen and chew the tip but not spilling the ink, to allow your thoughts to wander but it secretly feels sickening do to so, to witness the emptiness with a heavy eyelid, to listen to your own chaos with a pounding heart, to drag around the remnants of a troubled and broken heart...

...things take a destructive turn when you cannot write what you feel like writing. It takes away the mental peace and what is left for the writer is to be remain absurd for a prolonged period.

My hands shiver most of the time when i am about to write something.  If I write exactly what I thought, then I will be a victim of your judgemental stare.  But if I deny my thoughts and lay them down with similes and metaphors, then iam saved.

It is always ironical to be a writer.

Our honesty cannot be gulped too easily. 

Our boldest expressions labels us promiscuous.

Our softest utterances are marked with dulcet daydreams.

Anyway, what is even literature without a little dust of promiscuity, romance, daydreams and tragedy? 

We are bound to stay true to ourselves.

What we experience and how we impression it on the paper is merely a small amount of our reflections.

  Yet, my hands shiver when I think of writing something true.

You may not like my writing if I ripped off the metaphors and similes. You may not like my writing at all. I don't write for you. We don't write for you. We write to protect the little girl and the little boy who still dwells inside us.  

We write to justify our lost childhood, womanhood, manhood...

We write for her/him who wishes to break free the shackles of human bodily confinement, who wishes to wander into the unknown,  who is invisible to you all but exists as a surreal entity.

I weave my words and wish to remain whelved.

But still my hands shiver because reality is afterall exasperating. 

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A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.

Thomas Mann, Essays of Three Decades

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Pic~ *belongs to the rightful owner*