Why I cannot write
The latter word is the most important—comforting. I have learned that recently.
It looks like I cannot write. So, what is it? Too many distractions? It used to flow without much hassle and without much effort. Now, here I am, stuck between my actual state and my desired state. There is a gap—an unwanted one. I have stopped writing poems long ago. I fear the verses won’t align. I fear the words will sound old and traditional—offering nothing original.
If I cannot express my true self, why shall I bother to write? If I cannot be in the zone where mundane noises don’t get me, why shall I do it? Why shall I write if I am still a part of the mundane? Of the hopeless? I don’t do writing that lacks hope. I want to be most hopeful when I am in the process of it—when I have just begun to feel it.
It just so happens I write about hopeful things—about beauty, about air, about the cold water, the dying sun—fuck, I love writing about nature. Can’t seem to get tired of her.
“I’d write one for you. The unwritable girl,” said Gregory Alan Isakov. And thats what I do. I write about her and she is unwritable—and I don’t mean that in a rude way— I mean that in the way Isakov meant it. That “she” is otherworldly, pretty, warm and comforting. The latter word is the most important—comforting. I have learned that recently.
All said and done, in the end I will write about what’s comforting, what’s fresh as a cold plunge, or what pulls me out of everything that people call life. What people call “living”. Sometimes the shadow lurks on me and darkens what lies around me—that is when I worry and dismay settles in my breath. I gasp and leave out a heavy breath. But life goes on and the wind crashes onto me. As long as air moves, I move. As long as I move, I will write.
Office
7:34 pm
Wednesday evening