Of writing and other demons
I was told that in order to truly live your life, you have to do something you fear each day.
Writing is, for most, not really a big deal. It’s just like leaving a post-it note on the door of the fridge -a comfortable and immediate way to communicate something to someone in the near future. A means to trick time, if not necessarily for your own selfish sake.
But I fear it.
You can’t imagine the joy and pain that writing brings. Especially teamed up with a fat, old-school pencil. Frankly, I fear writing because it steals us away from real life and makes us forget our real values; we dig ourselves deeper in this letter-y wormhole.. we read and write rhythmically, forgetting the real people tipping their toes in nearby rooms in wait for us to return to life.
Ironically, as in every initiation rite, while stealing some of real life’s sanity.. writing also enables us to see more details in life..just thinking about the possibilities of what one can write makes you want to discover (or build up?) more sense into life.. more feeling.. more thoughts..
Nevertheless one cannot stop writing too soon. It’s a curse that pushes you to cyclically purge your thoughts and soul by putting it all out on paper. And you cannot help but be aware of the manner in which the purging is done. You’re stuck outside the thrilling shell of feelings.. and suddenly your words themselves feel strange and unfamiliar, the scribbling of madmen in the purgatory of meaning. So you gallop in the search of this lost sense… but words, words never answer back.