Why bother to write?

IMG_20170901_140618_865

“Tell me another story, or I wont speak to you. Tell me another story fast.” My six-year-old self slightly moved on the bed, turning towards my mother as these words flowed out of me. After a five-minute silence in the dark, my mother began speaking. My eyes were wide open, occasionally blinking in awe. I dozed off towards the end and dreamt of English farms and high tea on the mountains with ham sandwiches. I didn’t know what ham exactly was. My father told me it was a kind of meat, like chicken, but different. It sounded tasty; everyone in the story had enjoyed it. So I dreamt of ham as well, ham and cheese.

Everyday I got up and went to school, partially living in a fictional world. In school, where I would awkwardly sit scrawling words at the back of my book in a huge straggling handwriting. To write almost became an obligation, a necessity. I was surprised to see others struggle with essay writing, while I manage to swim through it faster than the goldfish in my fish tank mated. Did everyone else not dream of ham and cheese sandwiches? Apparently not. So I pretended to squiggle words in my book, until everyone had finished because I didn’t want to walk up to the teacher alone.

Slowly and steadily, writing became an inherent part of everything. I didn’t write to reflect, I wrote to escape. To escape what? Nothing in particular. But why live in the real world and be a socially acceptable person, when you can delve into the inclusivity and quirks of fiction.

I grew to love writing, to create, to enhance and to destroy. It became an compulsion to write about the life of the girl in a pink sweater who furtively breaks dolls, the woman who accidently dropped a strand of hair in the fish stew and the man who peeped into his children’s room every night before sleeping. To write beautiful descriptions and heart wrenching stories of these people who probably didn’t know they existed, to give them a beating heart, flesh and blood.

 

Usually, this is followed by a trickle of hope. A hope, that some day someone might just read it. Writing comes for the heart; it pulls the strings of your brain like that strand of spaghetti that is so long that it can never be fully wound around the fork. Maybe no one writes to please, to entice, to involve. But it’s always a pleasure when your writing does manage to do any of it. You run a knife through your heart and cut a slice out, almost like cutting a piece of cake and offering it to someone to consume. To understand you, to understand your story and decide whether or not they like you, based on a bunch of words you wrote.

Except that it isn’t just a bunch of few words, it is a feeling, a desire, an anger that makes you obligated to pick up a pen. An essence that only those large sprawling words can describe. A vulnerability that couldn’t be caged for much longer. Once the thoughts are set in motion, they flow lyrically, like a bird circling around the sky.

What makes writing so important for me, is the power I poses. The power to create what I want, and the power to destroy what I’ve created. To quote my favorite book and author, writing fiction is when “ the unthinkable becomes thinkable, and the impossible really happens.”

Over the years, I have questioned my writing over and over again. What is the purpose of writing if you want to know what others think of it? Am I just an oddity who is looking for a socially acceptable way to escape? Or am I prude who writes for the sake of it? Or is it really everything that I’ve mentioned in the above essay that drives me? After a lot of contemplation, sleepless nights and very few answers I came to a conclusion that the simplest of answers is usually the truth.
So why do I write? To make sure I continue dreaming of ham and cheese sandwiches, and maybe make a few other people dream of it too.

Advertisements

Liquid Wisdom

I see myself, immersed in a mystical brown liquid that shimmers brightly. While looking at my shaky wobbly self, I see that the ends of my messy hair that slightly block my eyesight; have tangled themselves into a knotty maze. Every time I straighten them, in a fraction of a second they spiral back into the maze. As I go closer and sense the complex aroma of this beverage, a new layer of fog develops over my glasses. The faint chirps of a faraway bird have now joined my senses and bring in a new dilemma. The dilemma of deciding if these chirps are a source of delight or annoyance. I look up at the grey cloudy sky, its barely four in the afternoon. It’s definitely going to rain, sooner or later. I can already hear the crashing sounds of things falling from my study table because of the strong winds gushing in through the widow. I should probably shut the windows and take off the clothes hanging in the balcony. But I’d rather just sit here and take a sip of my tea.

This tactile liquid has a pure and refreshing quality. It travels deeper into my body and leaves a lasting taste on my tongue that makes me obligated to take another sip of bliss.

With each sip, the cluster of fibers in my brain that were wound around each other and stuck together tightly, begin to unwind and spread out with ease. A sense of tranquil runs through the body and strikes a perfect chord with the swaying wind that smells of the garbage can far way, cigarettes, paint, lemons and everything I can think of.