write, you fool.
I have this quote saved in the gallery of my phone, amongst countless of photos this stands loud and beckoning. I was going through my gallery, like one does, the other day, when I met it again; completely forgotten. But the second I read it, it haunted me.
Write, you weakling. And I look at myself, for so many times have I not written for the fear of it, so many drafts do I have haunting the corners of my phone for I am too scared to share them. Whom am I scared from? What is this fear? I myself don’t understand— perhaps it is from my own self… But I try, try and write– write whatever I want to, write whatever makes me scared, write to get it out. Write, because that is all I can do. Like a ghost now known, the fear looms, but I try to overcome it. ‘Write, for yourself’ shouts the I in the mirror.
Write your misery out. Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful is this. “Write. Your. Misery. Out.” One of the reasons I fell in love with writing was because that it made me feel relieved. As I formed words from the 26 alphabets english has, I rid myself of so many thoughts– of miseries beset. Now with me writing (also) in hindustani the words I can borrow are more— not just in number but also in beauty. ‘I feel my misery escape.’ Write out your guts; I’ll try, I really will. As you make stanzas of a poem, create paragraphs of a prose, you realize, without having any intentions that you have “spilled your guts”— you have written about those ideas that you buried deep inside, you have written about those vulnerabilities you hide (even from yourself), you have written about those expectations you so vehemently oppose. Words allow you to exist in ways you never thought you could. Words allow you to express emotions that have you caged inside yourself. So write. Write for it lets you be.
What is my life if not a love letter to words?
Countless of times have I dedicated space to appreciate these words, to express my gratitude. And I have no intention to stop. They have been there for me when no one else was, they allowed me to be. While they are a bit of a moody friend— sometimes still as a river at other times violent as an ocean. I Write, for that is all I know. I read to feel seen, I write to feel understood, I write to calm the chaos. Lost in a web as beguiling as it is beleaguering, words are a map— a map to home. Take this home to be whatever (and everything).
Write, you fool. Because it is chaos out there, and perhaps there is someone out there waiting to read just those words that you have written. Waiting to feel seen and understood in a way your words could possibly do. Spill out what is choking you and shout obscenely. Shouting. This shouting isn’t always loud and angry, most of the times it is in silence; for me it is raged out in words. In poetry and in prose. In the non-verbal. In those in betweens, those pauses, those “…”, those em-dashes. For I have more to say but I refrain — how grieving…
yours faithfully, gyan
And taking this as a sign to pick nin soon
Gyan, this has to be one my favourite pieces of yours, every line, beautiful!! Write more :’))