Writing is difficult.
I wish to write every day, every minute, because there is so much along the lining of the cavity, just waiting to pour out in a slide of haphazard words, gesticulations, stares and tears. A conversation with a friend or a guardian spirit is a better vehicle for release One can spew and spew and it all dissolves into the great void of the world. I sometimes wonder if the air is not an incarnation of the blue-throated dancergod- breathing in and holding the toxic waste of the human soul for an eternity.
Writing, on the hand, remains. Writing stays still and writing dances across the manifold surfaces of the limbless internet and the humble ten rupee notebook that your mother may decide to read one day. A website may be hacked, a diary read without consent. In other words, whatever you choose to put down in a legible script risks being captured and taken away, or worse, used against the writer.
This paranoia has always kept me for writing a diary. However, over the last two years I have had a notebook that occasionally swallows up my misgivings, regrets, rages and terrors. But only that. Nothing positive, nothing heart-stopping ever goes into it. I think I would find it easier to own up to my flaws and ugliness than to confess to breaking down in front of a painting a strange city or having a morning that compensates for all the dull, sad mornings I have ever had.
To own up to a happy moment is to admit that happiness exists. I am not brave enough to raise the stakes that high. If I admit that happiness exists that I can no longer submerge my soul in the petty, the tiresome and the easy. I must go out and find this nebulous little poetry of existence.
To write about happiness is to remove all scope of denying that it happened to me, and that is to constrain myself forever from despair and annihilation. That would be difficult.
But I am happy. I am happy right now, listening to music I have never heard before, writing this confession and setting it free into the oceanic randomness.
I must give in to my bad writing. I must write trite things and silly things and self-indulgent bullshit and non-p.c. confusions and everything that is frothing and freezing the innards. So, I shall begin by writing about this morning, because I think I had the most mindful, ecstatic, heartbreaking morning of my life.
It is 1.37 pm and I have written a page, and the happiness is still quietly nestled against me.
I wish to write every day, every minute, because there is so much along the lining of the cavity, just waiting to pour out in a slide of haphazard words, gesticulations, stares and tears. A conversation with a friend or a guardian spirit is a better vehicle for release One can spew and spew and it all dissolves into the great void of the world. I sometimes wonder if the air is not an incarnation of the blue-throated dancergod- breathing in and holding the toxic waste of the human soul for an eternity.
Writing, on the hand, remains. Writing stays still and writing dances across the manifold surfaces of the limbless internet and the humble ten rupee notebook that your mother may decide to read one day. A website may be hacked, a diary read without consent. In other words, whatever you choose to put down in a legible script risks being captured and taken away, or worse, used against the writer.
This paranoia has always kept me for writing a diary. However, over the last two years I have had a notebook that occasionally swallows up my misgivings, regrets, rages and terrors. But only that. Nothing positive, nothing heart-stopping ever goes into it. I think I would find it easier to own up to my flaws and ugliness than to confess to breaking down in front of a painting a strange city or having a morning that compensates for all the dull, sad mornings I have ever had.
To own up to a happy moment is to admit that happiness exists. I am not brave enough to raise the stakes that high. If I admit that happiness exists that I can no longer submerge my soul in the petty, the tiresome and the easy. I must go out and find this nebulous little poetry of existence.
To write about happiness is to remove all scope of denying that it happened to me, and that is to constrain myself forever from despair and annihilation. That would be difficult.
But I am happy. I am happy right now, listening to music I have never heard before, writing this confession and setting it free into the oceanic randomness.
I must give in to my bad writing. I must write trite things and silly things and self-indulgent bullshit and non-p.c. confusions and everything that is frothing and freezing the innards. So, I shall begin by writing about this morning, because I think I had the most mindful, ecstatic, heartbreaking morning of my life.
It is 1.37 pm and I have written a page, and the happiness is still quietly nestled against me.
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