believe that you can keep writing regularly for a decade or more.
The past is
no more. The present is a smattering of irregular thoughts. The future is, as
always, shrouded in mystery – when once it presented itself as Hope, it now
takes on a formless, murky entity.
We live so
hard for ourselves: jobs, families, commitments, friends, Facebook updates,
checks on the Twitter feed, etc. We forget our reasons (not so much purposes) for
living. Then, in denial of the greater truths, we fall back on our passions.
But what happens when passion – like the candlelight flickering at the end of
the wick – dies?
11 long years. The 36-year-old version of self no longer sees the same things
the same way the 25-year-old version sees. Where there used to be more hues and
shades of monochrome, there is just this indelible grey that stretches way out
to the ends of the horizon, as far out as the eye can see.
many, we live on, plod on, breathe on, for the sake of our lives. Yesterday’s
observations become today’s memory, if one still remembers. We look back in
wonder at our younger selves, reminisce about the days of drawing in whatever
the world throws at us or chooses to show and then, spewing them out in words,
words and more words.
latter part of these 11 years, thoughts have been deemed too repetitive and
therefore, the words couldn’t see the light of day. Fear overwhelms the words. The
words no longer gush, but trickle. When there are enough to fill a page, they
get shafted into the Draft folder of the email application.
there needs to be a change in perceptions; that the voice, drowned in the world’s
excesses and then more, is still a voice. We are sometimes inclined to embrace
our past – not letting go for decades, in some cases – but maybe there is still
that little space left for us to pause and then think about the present (let
alone cherish it).
“Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake.” – Kurt Vonnegut
37 years of my existence – including the past 11 spent on here, I’ve always believed
words, my words, would never deemed an art. Yet, I cannot deny that my soul
grew just because I (perhaps once) loved writing them.
I won’t be
seeking solace, comfort and (dare I say) joy in words the way I did.
take them all on, as markers of my life, and as I continue my sojourn.