The inspiration for this poem comes from my undying love for writing. Despite how people dislike and despise my habit of looking at everything through the lens of writing—or hate what I do—I continue to write. Someone asked a simple question some time back. Both the question and the answer to it had a profound impact on me, for it is when I addressed the question, I realized how much I love writing. The question was, Will you continue to write even if you never rewarded for it? And I replied in a ‘Yes.’
I stand by the mirror, Yet again; seeing a myriad Expressions on the blank face; Of documents that I left behind.
I stare void, yet again. Lost. Overwrought. I wish I could go back. Rewind.
I argue, yet again. Taking an umbrage Dare you disrespect my love Even in your mind.
I stand stupefied, Yet again; knowing that Cluelessness is temporary That I must face the grind.
For I soon will cherish The moment of realization. The encounter with words! It will be rapturous!
For yet again I plunge, Swim to explore and From deep within, bring ashore Thoughts. What a find!
Writing has been my primary field of interest for as long as I can remember. Yet it took me a few more years after my schooling—and a lot of unpromising, unyeilding struggles—to get to where I am.
Although, from here are visible the two contrasts: I can see the vignettes of writing that made me, and the gleam of writing that shall make me. To the tunes of this muse, I choose to dance. To the flow of this stream, I prefer to stay afloat, aboard the paper boat of my imagination.
When the dark sky of nothingness falls, I pluck thoughts out of the void, to fill my bucket of conversations. From the eyes that bleed emotions to the heart that speaks the truth; from the hands that embrace togetherness to the feet that stand firmly throughout this voyage; and from the nerves that pump passion to the sparks that enliven the mind countlessly, there is so much to express yet nothing to show.
When I am at my desk, I wish to not speak but interact, to not hear but listen. Writing is, after all, the last thing that I want to do first. Always. It is a conversation that I have with myself.
The mysteries and musings Called upon by the yearning one. That which once was an escape Is now a Source… Reveal before it, one by one.
The haunting shrieks of thoughts That cut off your retrieves That talk through your mental voice. Embrace them; You don’t have a choice.
Writing is excitingly funny. Not because I mustered the courage of beginning this article with an equally funny use of an adjective. But because as a writer, you are that superhuman who gets the required attention without requiring to show up. That’s perfectly OK for the claustrophobic and utterly shy introvert within me. Writing is equally funny for the readers, too. Through your writing, they step into the world of someone else’s thoughts without losing the comfort of their chairs. That can also happen if your writing puts them to a sound sleep.
It is funny that writing, the act itself of weaving words together, is not funny at all. The consequential reading might be. But, to write is never funny. It involves a lot of work. Repetitive work. You get stuck to the same desk and same schedule for days, weeks, months, and (god forbid) years. Yet, you continue to dig out the priceless wisdom of doing and redoing the same stories as if your mind were a bottomless mine of never-ending thoughts.
I have been writing ever since I was a kid. In what I remember was my fourth grade, I wrote a small story of three kids who explore something amazing and go on to achieve their awesomeness forever. If only life was that easy! I will put this bluntly: beginning to write your thoughts down is the easiest part. Completing that train of thoughts is hard. Publishing that is even harder. And, writing on how to write is a topic that words wouldn’t do justice to. If only being a writer was that easy!
Yet we have countless writers who make their way through this seemingly endless journey of writing, rewriting, and publishing, to become overnight sensations and swim in money (You wish!), hoping to be someday the icons that give serious goals (and jealousy) to people around them. Quite often, a dull-looking kid, who frequented at the lonely sidewalk, struggling to find congruence of his own thoughts with those of others, eventually transforms into a celebrated writer. The fact is that words bring to us a lot more than mere messages. It is time we learn to weigh and honor our own words. Despite how we look at this world of writing, the writer’s ability to draw us out of ourselves, drown us into their own world, only to help us rediscover ourselves as better, more fulfilling individuals is awe inspiring. We can still safely call this end a happy beginning.
I met the writer in me when I was perched on the milestones in my little story. Who knows you, too, might if and when you choose to contemplate.