Well, there isn't any plain simple answer to these. I write because I like to write. I write because it gives reality to all of these thoughts inside my head which couldn't find an route through the tongue. I write because it often makes me feel good. I write because I find this the best way to convey my feelings to the people I love and value. I write because it is an escape for me, just like reading. Reading takes me far and wide, into the depths of unknown and makes me question all that is known to me. While writing, on the other hand, it makes me feel all of that as if I were actually experiencing them in the real life.
Writing your thoughts down, scribbling, babbling, jumbling the words, but giving pen to your thoughts nonetheless, is like trying to see through a fog. When suddenly engulfed by it, you go wild hither and thither, trying to focus, trying to find the way, looking for that circle of light ahead. Ha! If you try hard enough though, you do eventually find that way. Slowly, because of all that fumbling around in that white dark, your eyes get accustomed and you do realise the correct path out of the fog. Writing, in a similar way, helps me see and reach for that circle of light faintly visible at some distance. It, like it does for many of us who, even if occasionally, engage in its art, makes me clear the cloud of thoughts that so often takes us in, and it lets me see through to the things that matter.
Perhaps, I am starting on the road to becoming a compulsive writer, my current 200 pages quarto sized diary is almost filled and it has barely been two months since I started to write in it! And that isn't the only place where I am known by many to give words to my thoughts. And perhaps, half of what I write anywhere is utter nonsense and incomprehensible, but still I plan to continue writing. Writing gives some additional purpose for me to exist. Whatever the hell I write, if a teeny tiny bit of it is able to cause the birth of a minuscule thought, a slight hesitation in a quick judgement in some other soul; if it is able to exist outside of me and survive, and perhaps multiply, then I think the writing serves its purpose.
That one giant king of Macabre, who so efficaciously manages to haunt us every time, writes on a good piece of writing, it is which lets us pay for the lamp under which it was born. Although the days are gone when one had to toil under those fluorescent lamps to put pen to paper, I believe if a piece of writing can survive the clandestine and famously crowded alleyways of the web, then it ought to be keeping well with its noble ancestors. Perhaps, some of mine would be diligent and strong enough to find the way to their pedestal someday. In any case, as of now, I continue to write.
I plan on keep writing as well, though you'll never find where I write..
ReplyDeleteHa! Ha! I think I already know.
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