To Write Is To Be In Distress

I once read somewhere, that strife and mental turmoil is the food for the artistic soul.

I remember nodding along as I read, because while strife isn’t a frequent visitor, mental turmoil was my constant companion. Yes, turmoil, mainly of my own making, constantly picking at a healing scab and refusing to let things heal, but still turmoil. Turmoil that had generated various forms of the written word, in poetry and essays and short-ish Instagram/Facebook posts.

But this, now?  

This is proof. I can barely string a sentence together nowadays, much less create. Words are my enemy now; I love them with a passion that I cannot describe, but they don’t come to me now like they used to. Now, words are a means of income, and a means of mediating relationships that I cannot bear without. Words are now clinical, calculated and chosen with a sharpness and just the right amount of detachment for maximum efficacy.

I still read. I still love the way how words don’t just tell a story or a narrative, but brings with it an uncanny ability to penetrate through the thickest barriers and reach down to the soul that defines us as human. They flow with a simple yet complex cadence that bubbles with merriment and content, brimming with overflowing emotions, and yet, maintain that stillness characteristic of deep water beneath, quiet and anchoring. The depth that can be contained within a few simple words… Absolutely breathtaking. Terrifying too, if you consider the power it wields.

But I digress.

Despite my attempts, paltry as they may be, I simply cannot write when it’s not required. Not anymore. Now, every single word that I attempt to write is an archaeological excavation, a dig for the ruins that once stood proud and glorious, and now has fallen in disrepair. All that’s left is a magnificence that was left behind, forgotten. As I read through my previous writings with the beautiful words I cannot attain anymore—diaries, blog posts, even Twitter with its character limits—I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps, I am no longer in turmoil.

I cannot lie, will not lie. I am content. My heart is no longer the empty gaping wound that likes to throb in the silence of night, yearning for something it cannot have. It has most things it needs and want, nowadays, the lucky greedy little bugger. My anxious mind is relatively quiet nowadays, buoyed by the knowledge that no matter what happens, I will still be me, and being me means sometimes surprising myself with a capability that only surfaces when needed. My career is... well, it's not going anywhere for the moment, but I've long since learnt that that wasn't essential to my happiness. I don't have to be ambitious, or have a productive successful career to be happy; no, I've learnt that that was a byproduct of being a people-pleaser, and what truly makes me happy is to have a safe place to breathe and be no one but myself. And having him to share things with, without fear of judgement or retaliatory comments?

God, I might even go so far to say that I'm happy.

And therein lies the dilemma.

 I used to fancy myself a writer. I would read my own creations with both stale and fresh eyes, and be amazed by how words seem to flow when my fingers hit the keyboard, or when my pen hits the paper. My words would flow, faster than my fingers or my pen can keep up, some inevitably lost to the drifting currents of flyaway thoughts. Muses came and went, and made my brain their rest stop. I would write for hours, and still, be brimming with ideas and words. Words came together as though alive, and of their own mind, without much direction from me. As I slowly learnt that words didn't matter so much as the story they're trying to tell, words still surprise me constantly, with the stories they tell me on accident with intent. 

 I used to be able to write.  I used to absolutely love writing. I love how they would come together and tell a story better than I thought I could’ve told, surprising me. I love how sometimes they veer off course and bring me to places I never knew existed. Words helped me piece together the pieces of myself lost to the demands of others, and I am who I am now because I had my words. They were my closest confidant, a friend who I could trust to never leave.

But I’ve left them behind.

Ah, I’m going around and around, biting my own tail like the ouroboros of creation and destruction. Perhaps it’s not turmoil that sparks creation. Perhaps it’s recognition of the minor tripping stones and the tiny flecks of blood. Perhaps it’s sheer force, pushing fire and water together until they co-exist as steam. Perhaps it’s repetition, waves eroding the shore. Perhaps everything helps creation, but in such different forms that we sometimes cannot recognise them.

 Perhaps I need to learn a new vocabulary, that tells the simple joys and contentment of being in my own skin, rather than the turmoil that roils about unearthing the same words again and again.

 Perhaps I just need to learn to hold a pen, and start again.

 

P.S. As much as I love words, when it comes to real life, actions do speak louder than words. I simply refuse to accept words as proof, when so many misuse them. Ah, such is the duality of man. To not trust the very thing you love.

Reminder

 Just a tiny reminder, that so many people loves you. 

For the days where you feel so unloved, or forgotten, or worthless, impossible to love, remember this. 

So many people love you, enough to put down everything to run towards you. To abandon their posts, their work, their plans, just to make sure you're okay. 

You're lucky. You're loved. 

I Love You

 I’d once wondered

What does love feels like 

Is it soft like the pillow of a newborn child

Or harsh like the spray of angry waves 

Is it loud like the blaring sirens

Or tender like whisper of rustling leaves

Who can tell me what it feels like? 

One said, ‘It’s when your hands touch,

And refuses to let go,’

One said, ‘it’s when you buy flowers,

And see the smile on her face.’

Another said, ‘well, it feels like everything,

And also nothing.’

I searched the skies for answers

The seas for their wisdom

‘It’s beyond words,’ they said,

‘your heart will know it when it loves.’

It is still beyond words, my heart says

And sometimes you drown in the confusion 

Is it love? Is it not? 

Does he love me? Do I love him? 

Still? 

I’ve known the touch of his lips 

The sound of his words

The breadth of his kindness 

The height of his passions 

It’s the smallest moments - 

The soft rustle of laundry being folded

The harsh pants of his breaths 

The loud arguments that we have

The soft clinking of him doing dishes

It’s not what you feel, Love. 

Love is not a noun nor adjective

Love is a verb

We feel love because we chose love 

To love, and to be loved

It is what you choose. 

How does love feel? 

Well, it feels like a choice. 

Death

 Sometimes I feel like we don’t talk about death enough. I’ve been in the medical field for long enough to know that that isn’t really something you can ever be ready for, and that it’d be a good idea to leave something behind before you get suddenly robbed away from the ones you love.

I admit, I thought about death a lot more times than I should. I was never a fighter, so naturally, when things got hard in the past, one of the easier way out was death. And so, I’ve actually given a lot of thought to what I want to happen in the event that- well, if I am made to suddenly depart the mortal world. 

But don’t worry, I’m much better now. Much more insight into who I am and how I want to live this life, so hopefully these thoughts about death will change directions. 

But I digress. 

If I were to conduct and plan my own funeral, I’d rather it be happy and light, rather than the traditional dark somber tones. Don’t mourn my passing; celebrate my life. Isn’t it better to remember one’s last moments in a lighter picture, rather than veiled in the heavy shroud of black? Grief is a given in any event of death, why amplify it? Temper it with light tunes and happy images, colour it with bright reds and yellows and oranges. 

But it’s not nice to think about death too much; I do believe that every thought is magnetic, and whatever it is you think of will attract the very thing of your thoughts. So let’s not linger; I’ve made my point. 

We celebrate New Years and birthdays, the birth of a new year; but at the same time we celebrate the passage of the old year, of times lost. What’s the difference eh?