Does anybody read these ramblings in abstract time and space? Does it change even an ounce of somebody’s belief? Does any of it matter? Will it ever matter? To say, I write only for myself is an outright lie. But I admit I write to spend a little more time basking in the immense pleasure it provides me. I write to spend a while longer in a world I wish existed. Writing about realities is often stressful and pain inducing. But it reminds me of my deep connections to the larger than me, life. It deepens my understanding as my thoughts are never as clear as when I write. And that means something as my writing itself often lacks clarity. But I fail to understand the need to always make absolute sense. Sometimes, my writing wanders aimlessly from one strange thought to another. It drifts in the time and space of my creation. I love the feeling that I possess the ability to mould the stories anyway I want. It is something I have created from what I have read, what I have seen, the people I have met, the women I love, the cities I have been to. And it might be powerless to everyone else who reads it, but it is intimate, powerful and passionate to me. So maybe, I don’t write for external benefits, people or accolades. I write to feel that intimacy, every day. To feel a raw and unadulterated connection over and over again. But it isn’t easy. Being intimate with something means having my guard down. It means I am vulnerable. I have set myself up for ridicule, mockery and harsh criticism. Honestly, I don’t take these very well. I am a volatile and sensitive person. I care deeply about everything I write. I am attached in an intense way with the material I produce. But that doesn’t change the fact that others’ opinions can make you grow. So I put myself out there. I take that risk. Sometimes, I fail and I pull back into my shell. Sometimes, I can see for myself the potential that could exist. I build, I break and I build again.
Writing for me is my way of living life, sometimes. It is the way I deal with society and its crude ways. I write about my angst, my pain, my happiness. I write so I can empty my mind. I write so I can gain clarity in my thoughts. I write to be able to be. I know now after writing everyday for 112 days, that I can make writing everyday a routine. I can push myself a little further to reach my dream of being a good writer. But I struggle a little to acknowledge this. In fact, I struggle a lot.
Even as I scribble these incoherent thoughts, I am struggling between my understanding of political and personal; between the lines I have drawn of private and public. But writing helps bridge these conflicts of interest.
I know I have conquered my darkest phases because of this habit I have of writing my heart out. For that side of me, I need to keep writing. If not in a blog, then a diary. At least for myself.