I realized today that I haven’t actually taken time to
write. To be creative. To thrive on everything that I know to thrive on. For a
while now, I haven’t been able to sit down. Quite, simply because I don’t have
the time. And now I realize that that is just the older version of me talking.
As you get older, I guess you don’t have time. Or you don’t make time. I’ve
chosen things that have taken time away from it. I don’t want to keep making
that mistake anymore because writing is the one thing that I’ve always known
how to do. Whether it’s good writing or bad writing, I just always know how to
write and write and write and write until I can barely breathe anymore. I find
myself here on this bus and all I really want to do is feel the click of each
key on this laptop click again and again. And maybe that doesn’t make much
sense to anyone, but all I know is that I get a certain pleasure out of being
able to put my thoughts out on paper. It’ll be something that everyone gets to see
– to read. Or maybe, it’ll be something that I show no one. The crazy thing
about writing is that it doesn’t have to be for anyone and it’ll still be just
as satisfying.
I’m always entangled in my thoughts. All the time. And
sometimes, speaking about it won’t even help. Every now and then, I can’t make
sense out of anything and I just decide to start typing. This may be
artificial. But I’ll keep hitting the back button and rewriting what I want to
say. This is much like a writer’s process – believe it or not, authors don’t
just sit down and finish a book overnight like in the movies. Writers tend to
work on their pieces for extended pieces of time: fixing, tweaking, rewriting,
changing… And it’s in those moments when everything falls into place for me.
When I can see what I am feeling in written words, when they come together in a
logical way that I can make sense of, that’s when it’s most satisfying.