Writer's confession

 

 AVOIDING WRITING, LIVING AND WHY IS IT ESSENTIAL FOR SOUL?

Again a white unharmed page stares back at me. Again I don't want to ruin it with my interpretations of things, because that's the excuse I use most of the days for not picking up the pen, for not ruining a page. Who needs to know what I think? Why does it even matter? Isn't that what everything narrows down in the end, mattering! 

For a better part of my time, that's how I convince myself to not think about that itch in my hand, that continuous knock on the door. Leave it, don't pay attention. And by the simplest act of ignoring I let those ideas rot, turning themselves into black tar, tar that covers every inch of my brain's room. Because believe me I have let a lot of those ideas there, waiting for them to decompose, giving them time, not to bake but to end. I have never been gentle with those stories. I have starved them of an audience, I have locked them away labelling them too personal to share, too close to heart for the world to know. A glimpse inside the mind? Maybe, maybe just wild imagination.

I need to write, for the sake of it. I need to fill a lot of blank pages, thousands of them if need be, because there are still thoughts I can't articulate, there are still emotions I lack confrontation with, there are still stories that scare me and endings I don't want to think about. But I need to write them, I need to. Like breathing is essential for living but almost forgettable, like blinking, a mechanism happening on its own in a far fetch memory, Its like that. Now imagine holding that breath, working against your eye reflexes, the sheer audacity! I need to make it a habit but more than that I have to make it essential for living. Because isn't what art is supposed to be? Essential for survival. 

And trust me I'm surviving. Every other day, it's game over. Every other day, I make up my mind to stop trying. There are stories surrounding me, the ones that make me excited for the sun to rise, the endings I look forward to, the ones that keep me moving. I live for those. And in a way, I live for the ones that haven't been written yet, for the ones I have not shared. That's the beauty of it.

I started writing what was lacking in my bookshelf. I wrote what was missing. And I think that's worth a few hours of my daily monotonous hours. It is, I know, it is.