It’s been long since I wrote something good. By good I mean something that is heartfelt, something made up of my emotions, my feelings. A kind of writing which takes me into an another world, beyond the hustle and bustle of the world around me, the way it used to, sometime back. It’s been really long since I felt that numbness in my mind, that I used to feel when I used to dissolve into the zone – that writer’s zone, where you for those few moments, become detached from your body, and exist in the realms of sub-conscious.
Yes, it’s been really long.
Writing is like falling in love. You will be caught unaware when the cupid hits you. You’ll be strolling in the park one evening, barefoot on the soft green carpet of the grass, maybe lost in the song that you’re listening on your iPod, or maybe you’re just lost in your thoughts, about the day went by, the work that you don’t like, the boss you hate, or you might be thinking one of the thousands of the things that normally keep you occupied. It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that you’ll feel at that moment, that inside you, in your core, are so many emotions that you want to share, which are clamoring to come out. There are so many stories that you want to narrate, and shout out loud, for everyone to hear. These emotions and stories that are bubbling inside you, more and more, as the time passes, so much now, that you want to share these with someone you know, someone you trust, at this very moment. Right now.
Normally you would share your feelings with your friends, or someone from your family. But it is different, you know it, you can feel it. This is different, you think it in your head. So you rush to your lonely studio flat, which you normally detest, and don’t like being there during evenings. But that evening, you just rush.
You reach your flat, throw your slippers here, your jacket there, and search for that one pen you remember was there somewhere in this very room. Somewhere in the deepest corners of your table drawers, or maybe lying hidden somewhere behind the sofa where you remembered just now, that the pen had fallen last Sunday when you carelessly threw it after jotting down a shopping list. You search for it, here and there, you might not find it, but you’ll not stop. And then suddenly when you might feel that it’s not there you will see it at the corner, right between the foot of the Sofa and the wall, and you’ll lunge towards it like it is the most precious things you have ever seen.
When the euphoria of finding the pen had faded way, you will realize, that you don’t have a notebook to write. This you know for sure, you never had one after you finished your studies. But you know that there were some one-sided print outs that you know you’d brought from the office, last week, and forgotten to take back. In fact had forgotten completely about them, until this moment. But now you remember exactly where are those papers.
A cheap pen and one sided papers for writing.. huh.., you might scoff in your mind, that you’re being foolish, you’ll stand alone in that room and laugh at yourself, at your childishness, at your folly. You’ll feel like an idiot for thinking that you could write. And you’ll decide to forget it, and throw the pen and the pages away.
But you’ll not. For this time, a thin invisible thread is nudging you towards that dusty table, and the broken chair. To sit and place that blank paper in front of you, to stain it with that ink, the way you like, the way you feel. It doesn’t matter at that moment what you want to write. That is secondary. What matters is that you want to write, with your heart, from your soul. That’s it. Period.
Because it is enough. That cheap pen and one sided page is enough. That dusty table and broken chair is enough. All this which felt so meager once, is enough to bring out that torrent that is whirling inside you. It is enough to let you bleed and pour out your emotions. It is enough to empty your bloated mind, full of so much to say, so much to write. It is enough to make you fall in love, with writing, with yourself.