Saturday, October 24, 2015

Writing to me.

Only jobless people do that. 

Anybody can write, without failing to commit grammatical errors. That's what a lady friend told me once. Well she was one learned lady and an ardent reader.

It is true that anybody can write, anybody can write anything. 


But what does writing mean to me? If you ask me on this topic, I can give you answers that I don't mean and I can tell you stories provided that I want to tell you, but if I happen to ask that question to myself, why do I write? I simply think that I still don't have any fixed answers. 

I started to write when I was in my second grade. It was just imaginary story, my class teacher loved it very much that she promised me a career in writing. I was passionate about writing but then I don't know where the passion died and I would write essays whensoever we were asked to write. You know the English papers we wrote, and how malignant it must have been for both of us, our English Teachers and Us to write those essays whereby words didn't come out, words were never enough and how hectic it might have been to our English teachers to go through them and actually have it corrected. 

I envy most of the writers, but I don't envy their lifestyles. For most of the writers were clinically depressed or have a bizarre life style - most of them dying young or having lived a very short period of their writing careers. Why would they drink more, smoke more and do drugs? Perhaps, how to feel words, that zeal to feel them, that passion to feel them requires a hell lot of events that needs to be unleashed. People try to write, for ages, and all they could come up was with only handful of books that actually left an impact to the society. 

I found my love to write again when I fell in love I guess, when I fell for that skinny girl in my high school. For her, I wrote a tale, of course I killed her in the story and made her a doctor which she always wanted to be but never did. For her, I started the line: Some love stories never end... as they never get started. 

How stupid of me during those days, I don't even know whether she knew what I wrote for her? How the story started and how it ended? But now, writing has a different meaning for me. I am not a professional writer and I can't call myself a fellow blogger as well, these are my thoughts, am just typing them. Someday, perhaps, I will write a book, and become a professional writer. But I have always lacked motivation. What to write about? Everything seems so cliché. We have come across all sorts of bizarre stories in reality that fiction seems so puny while realities pile up: amaze and mesmerize us. Writing, just has now become a source of inspiration to me, it is something I can't explain to you. Perhaps, it is only here that I can be brave, there is something new here. Writing for me, is that escape route from reality, it is that journey like a dog chasing a car, I wouldn't know what else I would have done if I were to be a professional one? I don't know what else is next, if I happen to come up with a book, a book that is not a cliché. What to write about? Love stories? We already have had plenty of them and how they end, come on there are already 7 billion people on the planet, someone's story will always resemble what I would write. What are the odds in seven billion? Can we really invent what is not at all related to anything else? No imaginary mystical creatures, no stories of love, hatred or politics, just something, something that is so much out of this world? Something that is so independent of any of the formal epic stories?

What else to write? Perhaps, we all can write. Perhaps, we all can play with words, perhaps, we all can write with or without grammatical errors. Perhaps, I only write to express myself, with bits and pieces of me in it. And the last thing I don't want, is to be judged over by what I write? Perhaps, it is poking fear in the face, time and again. Knowing that anyhow I will be judged, but what the heck? Why not write about it? Let's push it to the edge, whereby I can write and actually have guts to tolerate the circumstances and consequences. Perhaps, I only write to liberate myself, to feel free, to run away from suffocation of daily lives, perhaps, I only write to amuse myself. Maybe that's what writing means to me, like watching television is for you, like pleasuring yourself with carnal activities is for you, like reading a book is for you, like smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol is for you, like eating best cuisines or going on a world cruise is for you, perhaps, and only perhaps, I would have known what writing actually means to me, I won't have written at all, all these articles over this period of time.

Do I write to change the thoughts of society? I used to do that once, but as I matured up, I realized we don't have confidence to believe in ideas and are often mixed up or confused with our own innate and adventitious ideas. Do I write to manipulate? I have other things to do than to manipulate and connive. Do I write to impress others? I have more often pissed people than to amuse them over my articles. Why do I write? I have often wondered about this, and most often, good or bad, right or wrong, I have always found myself suffocated, hadn't I written about a topic which I had thought to write about. And I am not able to write any next articles if I don't pen the previous one. Writing is sort of confusing to me. It is like falling in love with a shrewd lady, whereby I know that I pretty much suck, but I still am found loitering around her. Writing is that feeling to me, like falling for clouds. While seeing it just dazzles me, but while being among them is just simply cold and blurry. The fog that has consumed me, the fog that doesn't make me realize what troubles I invite over writing what needs to be written or not.

Ps: I usually, don't edit what I have written and I am too lazy to read myself. I guess, writing is just like mountain climbing is for hikers, road for drivers and grazing grasses for cattle. Writing solely is my addiction. My light to my eyes, warmth to my loins, voice to my speech, dance to my rhythm, eh.. I still don't understand what writing is to me. Perhaps, I truly am a jobless person. 

2 comments :

  1. I like spontaneous writings. The flood of thoughts and consciousness is really strong and should be poured. Writing isn't a characteristic of a jobless person. It's a characteristic of a person who thinks!

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  2. Your writing flows very smoothly and like the above comment, I guess we all feel and fond of your spontaneity! Keep writing Dawa! Writing too gives me immense pleasure of expressing what my heart is saying! :)

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