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.