Of Writing

Tonight, I write to ease my mind. To be honest, this was a line I had planned for almost an hour. More actually. I did everything I could to procrastinate the act of finally sitting down in front of my laptop and type. I took time to carefully craft a playlist that’ll accompany this act. In a moment of planned inspiration, I switched off the lights. So here I am. Sitting in the dark, with the backlight of my Mac illuminating the world around me, and reflecting in my spectacles, the emerging words on the screen, and in some twisted way, hope.

That’s one linkage you did not expect, I assume. Typing and hope? That’s an odd combination. But the truth is, for me it isn’t. Let me explain. I used to write. Often, and frequently. I will not comment on my “skill”, or the quality of my work, but I was happy with what I wrote, more so because it was a process of healing for me. I write, to free myself. I write to unburden my mind. I write to rid my minds of those thoughts that plague us at 3 AM in the night, when you lay awake in the dark, staring into nothingness, which is nothing but your ceiling in the pitch black dark. I write to redeem myself of guilt, the guilt of past deeds and actions, and possibly, of all future ones as well. I write, for a variety of reasons, but primarily because it makes me happy. Joy is an emotion that I cherish, and I am guessing most people do, and that’s one reason I am writing this post.

Ever since the idea of this blog came up, I have been vexed. I enthusiastically agreed to do this, and that’s important, I’ll get to it later. As the dates passed by, and the calendar pages fluttered, I found myself unable to write. I had perhaps lost that instinct that made me write. Many a times I had half-baked ideas about what I should write about, but that’s not how it worked, and it probably never would. Planning art or words or music is like convincing yourself that you are in love with that one person who has the exact same interests as you. It might sound appealing on paper, but it is doomed to die right from the start.

Not that I did not have emotions or thoughts or feelings to express. Of course, I did. But somehow, it was always too late into the night, and I was yawning. Somehow, there was always a lunch, or a dinner, or a brunch or a movie. Somehow, reading that book was more interesting. It was funny. I wondered what was wrong. I loved writing that I was sure of. Then why was I experiencing this?

I figured the best way to answer this question was to let the devil lead me to hell. I decided to write, and figure out what I couldn’t figure out via unspoken thoughts.

As I stare at the screen thinking about the same conundrum, imagining delusional scenarios of coming up with witty lines that become quotations for the generations to come, and by that I mean the pictures that’ll be shared across mediums, I think I have figured out the reason, and perhaps that’s why I left the title blank when I started this document, and now I can fill it in. I have an answer.

All of us go through this. Not being able to go back to certain activities that we know deep down we loved. It might be returning to ballet after three years of slacking, or laying your fingers on the piano for the first time in decades. All of us have been there. I think, somehow we link every single moment around us. Each one of us, at this very instant, this very moment, are a result of everything that has happened in our lives. Everything that happened from the moment we came out of our mothers, or test tubes. Probably even the months before as well. Every moment of joy, every heartbreak, every instsance of success, every dejected failure, every breakup, every fight, each punch thrown, and not, every night you spent up with your friend on the phone, just to make her believe that there is someone who cares, each night you slept in your bed, nightmares or dreams or pure nothingness, everything adds up to make that person that you are. Never forget that.

But I suppose, all of us do, and that makes the difference. We tend to forget that when we love something or rather when we have strong feelings for a person, or for a thing or for an activity, we always forget that the same was not in isolation. The person who loved strumming the guitar, is not the same person who is right now wondering why is she not inspired to do the same, when she can remember infectious laughter and cheer from that one song she performed for her friend that one night months ago. Every second you’ve read this post, you’ve changed as a person. Each thought, each neuron, is magically changing us, and we abashedly delusional. Human beings are miracles in themselves, and each moment in our life is defining us individually, spinning the web of individuality.

Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like writing right now, and perhaps that’s why you feel like picking up the phone the one who broke your heart a year ago, whom you swore off for the rest of your life. Time walks with the storm, and runs with the breeze. It changes everything it touches, and you have no control over it. What you do control is what you’re right now, and what you’re feeling or thinking in that moment. I begun this post to figure out the solution to a conundrum and instead found ramblings of some momentarily linked individuality, espousing a lifestyle I have never followed in my entire life.

Perhaps, in this moment, that’s what I am, infinite, or maybe not.

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