I hate to refer to whatever thin substance I spill in here, every once in a (longest) while, as writing. I absolutely hate it. I’m not writing. I’m ripping bits of thoughts and throwing them out, throwing them up when there simply isn’t room for them within. And yet, there have been months since I’ve done it. Write, you say?
Ooh, but I am writing. All day long, 7 days a week, not one of my days gets to be spared for watching shadows play on these orange-peel walls. I am writing – emails and messages, then reports and ideas and suggestions and plans and conclusions, then small bits of stories not adressed to me or anyone I particularly care for, then various paragraphs, at a more and more surprisingly rapid pace, then more sentences depicting stuff I actually know less of than I let show. Then, I write a shitload of lists, supposedly regulating the act of writing the previous packs of words and sentences and pretty calculated paragraphs.
Words have started to lose their appeal to me. The more words I see on the screen in front of me, the more colors I long to stare at. The more I type on my bright new keyboard (oh the sounds it makes when I hit its keys, priceless), the more I want to get out and breathe in all the air and light that makes this town more beautiful than any other place could be, right now. The more sentences I close, usually with a period, at times with a question mark and quite rarely with an exclamation mark, the more doors I need to close behind me, every now and then. Finish things. Get them done. Keep going. And don’t forget to hear yourself out loud, every now and then.
And yet, as I try to cover my frailty when it comes to the subject of w-r-i-t-i-n-g, probably mimicking this distance that should (just should) keep me safe from mockery and failure, and telling myself that there’s nothing wrong with being a dilettante, as long as you just don’t take yourself seriously – or expect appraisal from strangers and virtual passers-by, so as I’ve tried and tried to pull out this trick, I still found myself lurking by the window of a random place, seeing words and words coming out of people’s mouths, dripping from their heads conquered by sorrow, flowing on their either overtly expensive or visibly worn-out clothes, the same words that slide slowly from stripping trees, next to stained leaves, the bloody words that come pouring down with the rain and leak between my fingers, I never get to pick them up or store them somewhere safe. I might regret it at once, or I’m equally likely not to ever care. It might mean the world or might not matter at all.
And all these months, I’ve repeatedly overheard myself thinking these words, with a voice that’s been strangled and strangled to choking. “I miss writing”. I miss it. So I’m not writing, and pretending that I never ever considered doing it, or sparing a nook for this different type of words in my daily whirlwind of a life. Don’t get me wrong. I really do love this whirlwind. Even when I don’t leave the house or desk for days or jump out of pyjamas. Even when I come home with a bus that crams my exhausted flesh between strangers, even when I can barely stand on my own feet, even when some of the things that happen around me seem so damn absurd, that I burst into laughter in the most dubious of circumstances. And especially when I don’t see any reason why I should cry more often – and that used to be a substantial part of my life, not a very long while ago. But, and I’m not fond of placing “but”-s after coming to terms with how my life has turned out to suit me perfectly and casually being thankful for it – but I do miss something more than I could resort to admit. Wait, I just have.
- The perks of watching awesome sunsets and not having much to say
- In the loop