Often one wonders, why do
people write, paint or act? It all seems so magnificent, so divine like the
hand of god rested directly on the artist’s shoulders to do great things and
leave the rest of us in a permanent state of awe. The people with these talents
seem a cut above the rest in their awesomeness. Maybe they are. Somehow a good
writer’s sentences are more lyrical, profound and end up meaning more in a few
words than we could convey in a few thousand. From our point of view, these
artists could dance circles around us and not break a sweat. What ticks a person to write, barring the
whole shenanigan of selling books and making a lot of money? (Neither of which
I particularly mind).
A movie dialogue struck the right cord where the monk said “Our reality is what
we hide the most from other people”. I
think that all these wonderful artists we are in awe of, use their medium of
art to convey their hidden self which they normally would not portray in front
of people.
As much as I would like to
sit and do a discourse on the sketch lines of Degas or expound on the theory of
one word by Frost or Kafka, I fancy writing something more personal. I cannot
claim to know or understand an artist dead a thousand years so to speak, when I
cannot claim to know each and every facet of my own self in entirety.
At university one early morning, I wrote a
letter to someone I thought I had deep affection for, and wrote it with the
earnestness of one who would be writing a masterpiece. The setting was perfect,
I can still recall it. It was almost dawn, the air was crisp and promising,
there was quiet everywhere, and I was sitting by myself by the swimming pool,
penning away what I thought was my truest emotion, sheer poetry. I didn’t ever
give the letter to the person I had intended it for, something inside me made
me not to. Several years later, I happened to come by it whilst cleaning my
wardrobe and I read it again. 4 pages long, in curly handwriting, the letter
was utter tosh. I mean seriously, if I could go back in time and smack myself
for being a simpering, lyrical ninny I would do so. I felt every emotion
surging through me as it did that crisp morning, but this time it made me
nauseous. Thank heavens I didn’t give the letter, I would surely have been
laughed at. But that right there is the point. If we write every random thing
that comes into our head, which we feel might be a revelation to the rest of
the civilization; it might end up being tosh like my letter.
Fair enough. Maybe
random thoughts in our head don’t hold commercial value and would be laughed at
by people who have the very same silly or sillier thoughts in their own heads.
That said having an outlet for our thoughts in a creative manner is great
therapy. Not only that, it is imperative to have an outlet for those thoughts
rather than allowing them to fester in our minds and become a disease of sorts
which might spill onto our speech and alienate us.
Maybe on the inside we are
all ugly, crude and colorless. Expressing those factors in a creative manner
can render the very same ugliness, beautiful. And even if it doesn’t, it will
make one realize that over a period of time if we don’t check the ugliness that
is all one will end up being. Crude and ugly inside and out.
I was always fond of
writing, loved the flow of words on paper. It was exciting. Writing personal
blogs was an expression which appealed to me at quite a low point in my life. I
could have spewed filth, anger and resentment at the world at large. I believed
I had every right to. I didn’t have the courage to hurt the people I felt had
hurt me, so I wanted to use my words as blows. I wrote in anger, and read what
I had written. I didn’t like it. The negativity and heaviness that weighed my
words down was very unappealing and I did not want to read it, so how can I
expect another to? At times like this one questions oneself, “Should my entire
life experience be summed up in negativity, is that all”? The thought is
frightening, because thoughts on paper are far more real than in one’s mind,
and to be reduced to something so banal as hatred, that too in black and white
is loathsome.
No, my words shall not let
spew forth filth, I cannot allow my circumstances to change me so. We take
words for granted, that they can be thrown around willy-nilly. If one starts
writing to achieve the purpose of making sense and attain some inner peace, one
will realize that this is what separates the masters from others. The words of
masters can move people to love, hate, fight wars and celebrate victory. That
is the power of words. These words coax feelings to manifest themselves in a
way which reflects our true self, even though we might not like it.
“We live and breathe words. .... It was books
that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest
with me, and I with them. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were
lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its
colors and textures and sounds, I felt--I felt the way you thought, hoped,
felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I
dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted--and then I realized that
truly I just wanted you.”
― Cassandra Clare
― Cassandra Clare
To write requires courage.
One should always try to pen down words. Not only will it help to sift through
logical and illogical thoughts, it will save a lot of money spent otherwise on
the psychiatrist!
