What do I call this?

The thing with writing and I is we’re both hugely egoistic. We hate to admit that we don’t quite understand each other and that it might be that we’re making a mistake in training to do so, and as you can imagine this leads to this immense dearth of communication and of conveyance of words. I must say, I don’t know why I persist writing and why I feel calmer after writing even though I’m mostly over-thinking thereafter.

Writing? Well, he’s a feisty one.  He’s a haughty, passionate lad who knows what exactly he’s doing and has a plethora of spontaneous mood swings. It’s a paradox in a way; to know what you’re doing even when you’re working on impulse. I say that writing is impulsive as a person because I don’t usually write when I’m expected to. I just write whenever the rush of words and thoughts and metaphors and oxymoron deluges my brain and I know better than to ignore it. These phases of ‘insight’ are like fits- they randomly strike me and then, time is a part of an alternative universe for me.

I really think I should carry this small diary around, with a pen-that is. I see people, things and I think. This equates to a stubborn feeling of urgency which, if I ignore transforms to one of utter loss and devastation. Then, there are times where I wish I was an artist. I could paint the world- exaggerate a falling tear or a peaceful mango rain. Words... I run out of them, at times.  At times, even a dictionary isn’t enough. After all, the problem with beauty is you want to capture it. And to capture it you need a weapon. Metaphor or not.

I don’t even know what my bag of thoughts is full of. Accusations, regrets, expectations, concerns, desires. All the greed there is. All the vigilance, cynicism and nihilism there is. Envy at better forays and bitterness at my inability to reach the same. Writing does make one bitter. Writing makes one think; think so much that you hardly do anything else. But then, there’s something only the one writing feels and sees.

The feeling of knowing something better, of having tried to understand, to have attempted at capturing, to have told the world to go and look at the wonders of it, to ponder, be silly and make sense anyway... So much. While writing, you can act as if the world is bad and good and, useless and amazing. You can talk hogwash and still not be a captive of derision. Writing is that repertoire that humans haven’t generalized as of yet, and I think that is the beauty of it. You can’t transgress here; you can’t be bound. It’s a democracy. The best of its kind.

Writing is an improvisation of thinking, like air conditioners are to fans and unicorns are to horses. It is a stammer, a quirk, a trot here, a bolt there, it’s like mutation- sudden, discontinuous- like evolution, slow and continuous, it’s here and there, it’s in your head and mine; it just likes to have the dramatic essence, likes being eccentric and rare and everywhere.

My life is unimaginable with no writing in it. Writing is a language, once you start talking in it you can’t stop because you’ve already forgotten every other way to get across to others. Writing is hard, it is laborious, a drudgery to do- you don’t understand what’s right and what’s right. It is no easy Accio spell, it is about champing at the bit all your life just so you can express yourself a bit better than the others and not succumb to the odds in the course. Writing is... well, it’s writing. That’s the way it is and no Shakespeare or Charles Dickens is changing that.