It is easy to take your own self for granted. I remember a time when writing was not merely a convenient mode of expression, but a necessary fallback against the vagaries of the world.
I can’t seem to place it any longer. Thought self-care could be put on the backburner while I ran after things, often not any less material. Never thought I’d start viewing everything from a life-or-death perspective. Nothing ever is
However, I often forget my own pithy observations about life and the ideal ways to counter its bittersweet snares.
Nonetheless, I itch to write. Something. Anything. In times where my inner realm stands charred in the flames of my self-loathing and its worldly manifestation dangles precariously on the edge of maddening hopelessness, I don’t have it in me to go flailing before another entity in order to be rescued.
The last time I did that, it was akin to being saved from a cesspool only to be thrown in quick sand. No, thank you.
Thus the drive to turn upon what remains of my survival instincts. The lure of creativity, the brief illusion of power - to be what I’d wish to be, to run free and unthinking…maybe writing is not something I could ever forget, despite making myself believe otherwise…
He doesn’t bother reading through the rest of the entry. “Pessimist,” he almost sighs in response.
I continue to regard him steadily, my gaze turning ever so hostile at the slight posed to me by his lack of patience with respect to my work. “You could at least finish.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Just because I may have conveyed the same thoughts maybe a thousand times to you previously, the written form has more to it than the content.”
“I’m not here to appraise your writing skill. How much more flattery do you need?”
“You don’t talk.”
“Why not? Easier to point fingers, no?”
“Let me shatter your glass walls next, then.”
My hand snakes up to his, tentatively grazing his fingers. It takes all of my strength to remain composed – my eyes are beginning to cloud, my breath already coming and going in heaves. I could do with more than just holding hands, but it is all I can allow myself to seek.
He grips my hand nevertheless. “What is it?”
“I do. I still need to hear it from you.”
I regard him, both a plea and an unspoken understanding in my eyes. Of course he knows – we are cut from the same cloth after all. Forever caught up in our heads, unable to demarcate reality from the veritable battlefields which our minds are. Ruminating over our past selves, grieving for mistakes in a manner almost akin to exhuming corpses when they should just be left buried, dead and forgotten to the world except to our own selves.
“Does it matter?”
He doesn’t misunderstand the question. “Never mind, I won’t hold such repetition against you.”
And so I tell him, perhaps for the thousandth and one time, wishing he would simply read the rest of my scribblings instead.
However we write, with the tiniest of hopes, for it to be read. It doesn’t matter whether it is the world, or just one person; writing is also an exercise in vindication, complete only upon external acknowledgement.
It is also a measure of calculated courage over the false bravery of the spoken word.
I write to you, my friend. There are, of course, a dozen threads in my head needing some form of expression, closure even. Not all of them would result in the sort of reaffirmation I need at the moment.
Reassurance that I’m not the only one, certainly not mad enough to be feeling this way. Recognition of my rather skewed perspective on life and the reasons for the same.
I weave words into a veil, hiding behind it while yet calling out to you. I drew that line myself.
For you see, I look to not delude myself with the temporary comfort of your embrace, but stand on my own two feet while drawing strength from your faraway presence. The idea, of ‘help’ being a call away, is empowering in itself.
After all, did you not tell me that “darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you – grab your sword and don your own armour”?