Writing has never been easy for me. Perfectionism is a weakness I have been having an abusive affair with and in the writing world, it is a huge problem if one yearns to master this classy art.
There lives a fountain of words here which helps me be a good orator when my extroverted side outshines my usually cagey self. But, I also have healed scars and festering wounds all thanks to opening up. From these painful life lessons, I have learnt how to be cautious with what I put out there.
This has played a huge role in crippling my writer. In taking away her fluency too many times. In draining away her curiosity for niche exploration. Sometimes, I can't help but feel like I am silencing her. An act that aids in limiting the usual speedy recoveries from traumatic events.
You see, writing also translates into healing for me. It is how I repair whatever breaks down psychologically. A way of talking myself out of the darker bits of life.
Like the recent death of a childhood friend. A thirty eight year old soul who crossed over to the other side thanks to cancer. I am still trying to digest it all.
How we met and became friends. Her encouraging energy when I lost my mum. The last time I saw her smile. Her sudden death. The anguish on her three young daughters' faces as they left her graveside.
Followed by how short life really is. Or how death lurks in every second we breath in.
When I write, I pen what I experience. What I consume of a modern world that seemingly oozes more toxic energy than light. Having tasted my own share of pain, I often find myself trying to filter out the darkness in most of my pieces or racing through paragraphs to end some prematurely to supposedly spare my reader the painful details which mostly ends up ruining everything thanks to self doubt and unnecessary paranoia.
Writing can't be rushed. Like parenting, it has stages inclusive with responsibilities tied to the entire process of wielding it as a skill. It requires commitment and time. Like young ones, it demands attention and nourishing patience to grow. With this art, one cannot cheat their way past the unceasing sacrifices.
I have confessed to my having a bittersweet relationship with this liberating tool. The kind that would have anyone question my love for it. At times I struggle even making it through a single sentence then there is the overwhelming rush to write down my thoughts.
When I then do write, I can't help but feel overcome by the unspoken feeling of feeling like a mortal god holding on to future's history. I feel most overwhelmed by the whole idea of creating pieces that other human beings relate to. It simply humbles me as a writer and as a person.
Here is to me crawling back home to my alphabets.