I found myself questioning my motives, on writing. Here's why I still write.

BY indefiniteloop

I started writing on medium again, this year. Writing, on medium again, brought some memories back; it also made me realise why I write still. This, after a year full of goodbyes. Last year, I asked for a divorce. Post which, one my more loveable posts, was mistaken by the ex, as a gesture of slight. That led me to remove all posts (save one), from medium; removed them in the event that if any of the rest be misinterpreted, it would lead to fights that I cared not much for. 

Sometime later that year, I Yelled ‘fuck you’ to a 15 year old friendship or rather kinship —  ‘fuck you’ to someone who I thought of as a brother that I never had. That after, something about my separation was leaked to someone who then happened to call my ex, who had moved out; that leading up to the ex calling me up — blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t even understand what was happening, by that time. 

What hit me during all of that, this last year, I realised I’ve only said goodbyes, a whole bunch of them since 2009. And all of them, they did hurt. Every goodbye, left a feeling of emptiness. Every goodbye, akin to a scoop of something taken from me. It felt as if I was going crazy; it felt as if I’ve been doing something terribly wrong forever. And, I hadn’t spiralled completely so, to rock bottom, which I’d thought that I had hit. Apparently, I had still ways to go further  —  down below.

While in this state, I was writing —  more than I ever have before. That, thanks to Desk, and the community that had existed then. Writing, because the only thing I had going for me, were words.

I had turned myself into a typewriter, if I may. I wrote blog posts, poems, 50k words of a novel, self published an ebook, wrote my thoughts, ideas, plans, yearnings, wants, code, and you-name-it  —  I wrote all of it down, in separate notebooks, Evernote, Desk, in the form of blog posts, stories, etc. The more I wrote, the more I started feeling better. 

Writing, it quickly became an escape for me. It also became a medium of sorts, to get in touch with myself, with what I felt, with what I was feeling, with what I wanted to feel instead, with what I wanted to achieve, with whatever it is that I wanted, and want to do; writing quickly became a form of a honest, judgement free, and commitment free communication with myself.

Writing became a compass.  It did help, tremendously, that I had studied some TA. It did help, that I was also practicing something known as ‘Morning Pages’. But, it were my own words that healed me. They forced me to communicate, express, and feel whatever it was that I was feeling. They brought about change  —  made me more vulnerable, made me realise that being vulnerable was okay, that it’s okay. Words brought back the warmth that I had missed so. 

Today, they’ve made me an evangelist of sorts — for them. They also taught me that change is normal; taught me to accept change, and then to bring about change. They taught me to adapt. Today, as I go on writing, these words they keep fuelling my curiosity, bringing me wonder.

Writing led to Learning; It led to reading more, questioning everything further, and discovering new things along the way. I started becoming hungry again — for history, philosophy, politics, literature, and whatever else that I found curious. It led me to photograph more, to travel more, to experience so much, much more. I started paying attention to my grammatical skills too. Finally, I found myself in love again, with the world, with darkness, and the Universe. In love with my vulnerability, my flaws, my weaknesses, wants, desires, and everything else that makes me who I am.

Words became my crutches; they’ve become my strength. And now, I can’t go a day without writing, and learning. Without observing, reflecting, experimenting, and experiencing my thoughts, feelings, wishes, and everything else in the middle. I am the most productive now, than I’ve ever been in years. There’re still ways to go further — up above. But, it’s not so lonely, and miserable anymore. 

I write now, everyday — more for me than anyone else. I read now, wanting my curiosity to be gifted; trying to find people who’re just like me, and then I try to reach out. To form meaningful connections, offer something that may help, offer them some warmth — if I can, in any way possible. 

Here’s to writing, and to anime — that deserves another post altogether.

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