In writing, with love.

 

“At that moment, the urge to be writing was stronger than any notion she had of what she might write."

          Ian McEwan, Atonement 

Writing is an intriguing thing.  To write your mind Undressing your mind, to write your heart to lay down the feelings, and open it to people  to serve it to people, to make them taste a bite of it, to make them explore their palette so that they can wander through countless assumptions and finally to watch it quietly get faded into nothingness. 

Writing is nerve-racking.  It is like openly inviting people to your own funeral. Known, unknown people reading their monologues, pitying and expressing grief whereas you are in your coffin, motionless and pale.

All of this, even before death takes you away.

Writing is sympathizing with your own self. Before I could even write a word I had to go through the writing dilemma writers block kind of  ritual: Staring blankly at the screen ,so many voices and daily tasks trying to obliterate my most soft sophisticated parts, tea is getting cold and I honestly don't care about that,  the troubled inception struggling to flourish, the weary confidence after the first ten minutes,  scrolling through smart phone to get some fake dopamine, another twenty minutes gone by, a sudden kickoff of existential crisis, thoughts of abandoning writing, next ten minutes crying wildly and tissue papers are my only comfort! 

I brush off the tears and try writing again.

It is like everything is abundantly floating freely inside your head but the moment you take a breathe, when your heart almost skips a beat and after hours of struggle you finally somehow decided to move your fingers across the typing machine, nothing comes out of it.  What is left remaining is a clogged sinkhole which becomes an aching reminder of a failed attempt adhering to you, haunting you, for the rest of the day.  Unable to carry that haunting feeling, you desperately try to unclog it.  The more you do, the more it gets entangled. 

Writing is to admit that writing is a mindless walk on strange lonely alleyway. I thought of writing something about August but Taylor swift already took that credit with a billboard hit album!  

 But August is indeed slipping away.  Unapologetically flawed, I will stumblingly enter into September, followed by the opulent starry sky of October, falling naively into the hands of November, derisively tossed towards the bleak mid winter nights of  December.

Writing is to suffer.  To write is to invoke what was just a dreary dream, the most heart wrenching midnight cries and tear laden pillow.  I read this wonderful quote somewhere which said "Suffering feels the most religious, only if you do it the right way." True.

Writing is to confess freely about the unorthodox which is extremely fulfilling. 

But my paradigm with the writing sadly reaches at the same point where i have started. 

Staring blankly at the screen, more trying to separate the reality, train of thoughts and yet the screen has barely any words.