Writing is so many things to the millions of scribes spread across the various faces of the planet but to me, writing is more. This, plus how difficult it is to quiet my mind to create, is why I often go missing.
You see, most writers are well seasoned and their ink can transition as per demand or mood. They shift in between reflective, poetic or corporate mode flawlessly. They birth haikus and breathe life into fiction effortlessly. They are the gods of this immaculate craft.
I also suspect that they have their demons in check as they prefer to wait upon sighting rainbows when their skies are grey. They ooze confidence as they bend phrases and stuff them in these lengthy but sensational paragraphs that summon readers from dusty shelves of a YouTube and TikTok generation.
They are meticulous planners and thus take up the lion's share of the juicy writing gigs. They have command over words and this means they can live off of them.
Then.
Harmony...by Gerhard Merling.(1945-2013)
There are writers like me. Those who cling to jotting down to heal and mend everything nothing else can't seem to. The worshippers of the alphabetical union and the freeing elements they bring. They, the confused lot that pens from personal experiences and some otherwise unavailable drafts are my tribe.
Words wrestle my doubtful voices as they fight my reigniting desire to heal before my ink can wash over the noise, silence whatever the ego had fueled and find the beginning of any piece. You should see my ego later shaming myself for wanting to pen another one of those pitiful pieces that I do.
It's a vicious cycle. A sad one.
This leads to my struggle with inconsistency as I insist on questioning my pieces and that in return feeds the procrastinating monster in me. Then I forget to treat my scribe or poet kindly as I watch her shutting down for the millionth time.
It is always a pain to try and convince myself to try again later. My system takes a while to reboot creatively. This means that I discard more ideas than I create relatable pieces and somehow let the shackles of what a piece would have freed me from stay.
Prose and poetry have helped me free some formerly caged versions of myself but I am yet to let myself get lost in their full magic or rather mine.
I keep holding so much back.
I have mastered the art of bottling things up but masked in a casual everyday face. I bury half of my expressive ideas assuming that no one would be interested or they wouldn't matter shared or not. This is me trying not to give in this time