This is a long post. I’ve this habit to make everything quite dramatic. So if reading some random thousand words isn’t your cup of tea, you can skip this post. And if you’re still here, step inside and see the devil in I.
Sometimes we do certain things for no apparent reason. And if you ponder the reasons for that, your mind only draws blank after blank. None of it will make any sense because it never makes sense. The first time I tried to rhyme words, I had no idea why I was doing it. It just made sense. That’s all. As if there was a place where I finally belonged.
There is this pain, you know, when you want to rip out your own heart. You want to trade the pain for the numbness. It’s not a want, it becomes something primal, something that can replace your instincts. The instinct to feel pain, the instinct to care is replaced by the instinct to kill yourself. The person you’ll become, if not saved, would be scarred, numbed and unplugged from life. When nothing seems to go right, when every breath is choked with despair, death seems like such a sweet escape.
Seems like a dark alley to a twisted land, doesn’t it? I was heading exactly there. I wanted to trade my pain, my scars, for numbness.
Few random words. Who would have thought? Few random words and I found a sense, a need, a hunger. Hunger to tame another one of my demons in some rhyming words. The imperfect bunch that I’ve become a part of, they all need these words in the same manner. You can possibly even say, these words, they are our breaths.
Or maybe I’m making it more extreme than it possibly is. I’ve been told that I’ve this tendency to make everything quite dramatic (Hey, my companion of brief moment of insanity). I’ve this habit, you know, when I’m passionate about something, I’m completely immersed in that. As of late, I’m definitely breathing my words.
Our words do surprise us. I made a profound realisation while writing this particular post. Writing did so much for me and yet I seem to limit myself by my choice of words, my choice of wit, my choice of expressions. I want to make everything perfect, as if every word that comes out of my mouth has to form a poem. Though you might say my posts are never poetic but are full of prose, I still try to make them poetic. One word bridging another. I’ve no idea how I want to finish this particular paragraph but that is ok. Life is anything but over. It’s never finished. One moment creates a bridge to the other.
My words made me cry. After seven years of believing that my eyes were dried, I finally cried, my hands trembling as I kept writing one word after another.
Until these very moment, I was bothered with the fact that my stats were falling in the last few days, I’m barely getting hundred views. But I’m making my peace with this now, as of this moment I’m not going to care anymore. I’m not going to be bothered if my words do not make any sense to others. I’m writing for myself. And I’m definitely not going to waste my words to please an idiot who possibly couldn’t and will not understand my need to write.
The first week theme on The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch was “Why We Write” and we finished the first week cycle in style. A perfect circle. If you missed any of the posts, check them out through the links below.
Do not forget to check the original blog of all the contributors, you’ll find some truly brilliant writers. Some witty ones too.
In week two, we’ll be covering our views on writing routines and the first article on writing routines is already published by none other than Grabbety Covens. Check out his article, “Writing Routine – In Search of Creativity” right now.
If there is something specific you’d like to be covered in the posts, drop a comment and we’ll try our best to cover them in the following posts.