13 Oct, 2013
What compels me to write?
What invisible forces drag me from slumber in the middle of the night to a mad search for a piece of stray parchment and something to impress upon it with?
I am not, by any means, looking for gain- or fame. Most of the times, the re-reading vexes me, giving birth to an embarrassing debate within myself, for, caught in a frenzy, I will pour myself out- only to find a mistake here and a half truth there the next day. It humiliates me beyond bearing to have someone else read me before my eyes- I can't stand the silliness of it all! Yet, every time I see a blank sheet, I must mark it...
When I went up to my terrace this evening, I saw the half moon, seated comfortably on a silver bed of wispy clouds, it's luminosity heightened by the indigo blue of the sky- and I wanted to write. A scenery so splendid, I had to capture it in words. Maybe, I thought, I could weave a story around it: have a fair maiden look upon it longingly, while, maybe, also wishing upon the evening star... Or, maybe, some poetry would suffice: a quartet of select, almost rhythmic words strewn with imagery and the hint of a metaphor... Or, as I mostly do, I could write about myself, about the countless conversations I have had with the night sky, there is always some wisdom to be found when searching the heavens...
But why, why the need?
It's almost spiritual. It's a conversation. It's me plunging into the depths of my soul and my understanding, asking and retrieving. It's a search. It's also a discovery. It's meditation. It is a journey. It is an attempt at identification. It is also an attempt to defy identity- to be somebody, anybody, but yourself, to live a stranger's life.
It is purely about creation.
Ideas and ideologies: the pen starteth it all. And what is man without the thirst for creation?
I'm sure I'm nowhere as near to an answer as I'd like to be, for tomorrow if and when I re-read this, I'll think up another theory...and then another...
The pursuit, the whole temptation of it, is what fuels the passion.
What compels me to write?
What invisible forces drag me from slumber in the middle of the night to a mad search for a piece of stray parchment and something to impress upon it with?
I am not, by any means, looking for gain- or fame. Most of the times, the re-reading vexes me, giving birth to an embarrassing debate within myself, for, caught in a frenzy, I will pour myself out- only to find a mistake here and a half truth there the next day. It humiliates me beyond bearing to have someone else read me before my eyes- I can't stand the silliness of it all! Yet, every time I see a blank sheet, I must mark it...
When I went up to my terrace this evening, I saw the half moon, seated comfortably on a silver bed of wispy clouds, it's luminosity heightened by the indigo blue of the sky- and I wanted to write. A scenery so splendid, I had to capture it in words. Maybe, I thought, I could weave a story around it: have a fair maiden look upon it longingly, while, maybe, also wishing upon the evening star... Or, maybe, some poetry would suffice: a quartet of select, almost rhythmic words strewn with imagery and the hint of a metaphor... Or, as I mostly do, I could write about myself, about the countless conversations I have had with the night sky, there is always some wisdom to be found when searching the heavens...
But why, why the need?
It's almost spiritual. It's a conversation. It's me plunging into the depths of my soul and my understanding, asking and retrieving. It's a search. It's also a discovery. It's meditation. It is a journey. It is an attempt at identification. It is also an attempt to defy identity- to be somebody, anybody, but yourself, to live a stranger's life.
It is purely about creation.
Ideas and ideologies: the pen starteth it all. And what is man without the thirst for creation?
I'm sure I'm nowhere as near to an answer as I'd like to be, for tomorrow if and when I re-read this, I'll think up another theory...and then another...
The pursuit, the whole temptation of it, is what fuels the passion.
And these are the posts I like the most. From the heart, inked on the paper. Pure and smooth as silk.
ReplyDeleteKeep up! :)
Thanks. Glad you liked it. :)
DeleteI write because I want to - is the only true reason for writing :)
ReplyDeleteIndeed. :)
Delete"Yet, every time I see a blank sheet, I must mark it...!!" Very Ture !! :) I know how it feels to see a blank paper... ;)
ReplyDeleteAh, partners in crime. :)
Delete