Hey. How have you all been doing? As for me, I’m okay.
Have you ever had a real heart to heart conversation with someone? Like someone you know you know but not know like not enough knowing but you pour out everything anyway even though you know ‘they’ll judge they’ll judge they’ll judge’ but you do it. I honestly tell you that I have done it. And I add I’ve done it (poured my heart out like a baby) quite a few times to know how it works. There are six possibilities:
(a) they listen and they judge and they mock and they laugh about it at your face. (b) they listen and they judge and they mock and they laugh about it behind your back while acting all pitiful on your face. (c) they listen and they don’t judge you, they listen patiently the entire time and after that, but some time later it becomes just a burden and they leave you amidst of everything when you need them the most (d) they listen and they don’t judge you, and they’ll always listen to you and pat your back and wipe your tears and say “there, there” and say that it is okay to cry (e) they’d listen even though they have been with you all the time and they’d like to kick ass but oh they cannot and when you cry they’d kick you to do that for anyone who isn’t worth the tears/crying and, (f) you hope they listen you desperately do hope and they don’t and there’s so much blankness to it that you don’t know if your life is messy or you are.
Hmmm. I’d any day choose the d and e ones. Sarcasm, please. Even though the world is full of oh God everyone except the ds and es.
So I did a little research last week (or a couple?) about forgetfulness. It is said that it a human characteristic that if a particular memory, or a time period is painful to us, we try to forget it. We block it. Amnesia is a weapon for pain. Unfortunately so, I do not have this power of forgetting. I don’t know if it’s a boon or a curse, but often it turns out to be the latter one.
You see, my writer self and my normal self are maybe convergent, but they’re definitely not overlapping. They’re different. The worst best thing in the world is being a writer. You cannot forget anything – good or bad – that happened to you. And sometimes or I should say often, it claws its way to your normal self. Anything that breaks my heart gives my writer self inspiration to write, and my normal self nightmares. Heartbreak gives me nightmares, because unlike other people, I do not forget and move on. I have to live those seconds, those minutes over and over. I have to remember that pain. I have to observe my own self as a critic. My normal self is an object of observation for my writer self. Yes, I have literal and very real nightmares. And my nightmares aren’t like what they show – I don’t wake up in the middle of the night screaming. I wake up in the middle of the night crying, my pillow stained with tears. Basically, while others get to savor the luxury of forgetting, I simply put – don’t. It’s almost a curse sometimes to remember everything – to be made to be remembered everything. It’s inescapable. I’m my own prisoner, the prison is mine, the high walls, the torture, and the people? They’re merely visitors. Sometimes frequent, sometimes not so much. Or often? It is difficult being a writer. You’re so consumed every moment with some or the other thought, and it is the most infuriating that when you pick the pen up, it’s just empty. Your head it empty. But there are so many, so many stories to write down, I could scribble until my pen’s nib breaks – even though it’s exaggeration. Exaggeration. It is a weapon for writers. Yep. You got it right. Writers romanticize everything. They exaggerate love and heartbreak and everything. It’s nothing like in the books. What it really and truly is that it’s ugly. Real Love is ugly and it’s without the capital R and L. Heartbreak is Ugly with a capital U.
Writers are just brave beings who survive through a lot of mess and then want you to give a cushion to fall on when you suffer through it. Because well, we have to look out for each other, right? Although people rarely appreciate the important, important work writers do that is, holding the very base – that our species have been living and built up on i.e., fantasies and stories that we don’t even know are true – and making it stronger by the day.
It’s important. Writers are important.
It’s complicated actually to explain what I as a writer feel. But then again, everything in this world is complicated. Love is, death is, birth is, life is. It takes a lot of courage and strength to write what is felt, assign feelings and emotions words. It’s beautiful. And if you think it is anything less than working out or balancing equations, you’re wrong. A writer starts and ends with only one and single aim and destination – to make his or her audience feel anything like he or she does OR get into other people’s minds to write what they feel. And yes, a writer’s head is an extremely dark and inane place. Sometimes these thoughts are suffocating. But the anxiety hits when they can’t be poured out in black and white. Writer’s block. An ailment without cure. It goes away itself. But it the mere time it stays, oh my my, it drives writers crazy. It’s frustrating and awful when I pick up a pen and hold its nib just floating above the paper but poof – there’s nothing. Absolutely empty. The ache starts from my feet and spreads to my entire body and it’s restlessness and it’s irritation and everything in one place. Damn isn’t it painful. Yet we go on. I go on. Everybody does.
Usually people don’t understand that what you write isn’t always what you really feel. The thing is – I have to write happy and joyful words when I’m in tears and maybe write soulful melancholic verses when I’m jumping up and down in ecstasy. It’s just part and parcel.
It gets difficult sometimes, when people don’t respond to what you write. When people don’t care. Writers thrive on the responses of readers. It’s a symbiotic existence. One can’t survive without another and some don’t get it. It gets real hard then. It’s usually the start when writers require their readers the most as their strengths. But if right then the readers become indifferent, the writer dies a little everyday. We need you like the society needs us.
Song of the day: Attention by Charlie Puth (love love love <3)
QOTD: Our entire lives are just collections of trying so try a little harder today, darling.
Would really love to see you at Instagram @inked_musings and @wandxrxss and Snapchat – eterniti_dreams x