I had, for so long, believed that I could only write about what I truly felt for, admired, or was stimulated by; something that could revive a certain memory or emerge from an instantaneous urge to put words on paper. There was never much consistency in my informal writing. Maybe because it came with no incentive. Maybe because I never chose to call it my profession, despite always carrying the underlying dream of calling myself a writer. Or maybe because I spent too much time imagining myself standing at the top of an iceberg of writing while all I really did was daydream, manifest in my room, surrounded either by overdue inspirations or, on the other side, ignorance.
There was always this feeling that if I wrote something like this, no one would read it. Possibly because no one could relate. Possibly because they would not know the backstory. Possibly because there was hardly any reason for anyone to go through my backstory. Or perhaps because I have repeated my stories in so many different versions across different periods of my life that it has become difficult to tell what is what. Even I tend to lose track of it.
And if someone did read it, perhaps it would only be because they owed me that much. They might find it mildly amusing because every now and then they would come across a thought they once had themselves, now put into words and action through an article. That’s it. No deeper meaning. No lesson. Just a faint observation. That is all I could reasonably expect because that is probably what I would do if I were someone else reading my piece.
So, I can now figure out that I simply have to write. I feel the need to. And perhaps I need to alter this very premise of “feeling the need.” I need to make writing my profession rather than merely my passion, so that it comes out of me more naturally and more often. Whether no one reads it, or whether everyone stands in awe of it, I need to get the words out. And that is what I will do.
I will call these words energies, for the importance they have always carried in my life despite never having a tangible shape. I have to own what I say. And I have to accept something I have known for a long time: writing will always remain a form of expression in which I will try to be my best.
No hollow promises. No unjust use of this gift. Only an honest attempt towards the betterment of myself and, in whatever measure possible, society.
Rarely have I been able to speak and write with complete clarity. More often than not, I found myself pulled into multiple contradictory thoughts, each leading me into indefinite loops of what is what, only to return me to the very place from where I started. So, I need to make use of these rare moments while they are still available to me, until they become common enough for me to express what needs expression, because I can no longer shy away from myself, nor continue to underutilise or underperform in circumstances that demand my full presence.
