“No coincidental urge was gifted at random to me, no accidental seeds of calling sown without the will of this realm’s guiding beings, my existence was as purposeful as each draw of the wind shaking the leaves, as every hue in the sun’s dress that nature weaved.“

To the dearest you, 

Today I felt the urge to write, yet I could not find something to write about. I scoured through my collection of quotes, my long-forgotten yet precious notes, to discover an emotion I can write at length about, but nothing stood out, my zeal to write was left unfulfilled by my own interests that stared back at me as I skimmed through them without much mind. Unlike this day, there are days when I wish to not write at all, even the menial task of combing through my past writings to find a glimpse of inspiration becomes a tall order that I seem to lack the energy for. I do like very much the absence of such days, for even if I love the relaxation and the call of my comfortable bed, I like more so the hypnotized tipper-tapper of my fingers against the keyboard when I become so engrossed that I almost do not know what I’m writing about, but just that I’m writing something that I feel driven to the point of not stopping to wonder which keys are being pressed underneath my fingers. It is akin to a spell that one gets bewitched by, who would not like to indulge in such an attractive endeavor? 

So I’m finding myself writing about this phase of non-writing, the emotion caused by the lack of motion. I wonder how many writers get entangled with this complicated relationship with writing itself and question if they even are a writer if they cannot find something worthwhile and meaningful to pen at their beck and call? That is how I feel many a time. I’m more than acquainted with such feelings, or perhaps I could even risk it and say that I’m in close proximity to the dissuading doubts that seem to catch me in the middle of my journey to bombard me with their nefariousness. These doubts come from the forgotten expectations that were paved in my mind before I knew not to consent to it. I’m held responsible for the expectations that have been set in me, it remains my duty to completely untether this forced bond that has been clasped tight to my wrist, which pulls me away from indulging myself in the completion of my writings. 

As to how these expectations feel, I would ask you to envision a bouldered gateway, engraved with mystical language, bearing vines and covered in thick moss, standing in the midst of sand covered land, appearing particularly ancient yet giving away its build that is not quite historic. Beyond this lies abundant grassland and magic sufficient to bring your every wish to fruition. It opens with a well-known spell spoken in a strange language. The only difficulty lies in that I do not know this language, nor does learning it bring the same effect as it rolls off my tongue in awkward ways. The verdict is that I’m unable to cross over into the enchanted land. Sometimes, I feel like I enter it as an extension of it. I almost seem to become fluid and stretch with the door itself, merging into it, and yet when I extend my hands to almost touch the air on the other side, there seems to be an invisible wall, and with that, the dream shatters. 

This door spell encompasses learning of the distinct ways created by those who constructed the doorway. The way is made of certain demands that must be met for me to be able to wholly become the writer I wish to be, to attain this glorious title and be acknowledged in it, because surely wishing it doesn’t make it true, neither does pretending, so if one wants to have it placed in their hands without entering a quest to win it, then they must follow and be compliant to what is asked of them. The demands that would allow me the passage are simple enough, to write with an ideal consistency, write at will, and write of the things the world would wish to know. One would think this to be a reasonable challenge, to me it appears an unnecessary one. The options remain to either break the gate or learn to open it. If you are unsure what I would choose, then let me clarify. I would choose to tear it open, one heavy brick by another annoying brick, for I have learned enough and no longer desire the learning of yet another language, spoken by those whose intentions appear more suspicious than not, to open a door that should not have hindered my way anyway. 

I have my own reasons. Let me tell you about them. Consistency and I have had a strange relationship since forever. I tried to befriend it a hundred and one times, yet we find ourselves incompatible with each other, at least in the regard of writing. I will not make yet another attempt just to appease those who stand behind the doorway waiting smugly for yet another follower. To write at will seems a plausible task, only that it seems like chasing a tiny rabbit that absolutely does not want to be captured. You can play with it as long as you don’t make your intention of caging it known. It will come to you when it wills, and it will drag you around the house, tiring your muscles, leaving you to catch your breath while it goes into complete hiding. A futile task, believe me. Last, and the most undesirable condition, to write what the others would wish to know. How? Others want to know various different things, all useful, all variable depending on the individuals I decide to cater to, but wouldn’t it be more sensible to offer whatever I possibly can in hopes that it would be an offering desirable for someone out there? For if I were to put my attention to finding the likes of another and yet fail to please them due to my insufficiency in the said matter, then that diligently written piece would neither represent by being, nor would it successfully fulfill the needs of another, and more importantly, it would surely not allow me to fruitfully search for another whose rhythm coincides with mine, who can see parts of their silhouettes dancing with mine under a dim light, with whom I might have been able to rejoice in this journey had I not forsaken my own uniqueness to nurture a mass that is not mine to care for. 

As I said, an undesirable task, one that seems unreasonable to me, perhaps not to others, but this only strengthens the idea that it is for them to adopt and toy with, not mine to tie my fate to. Yet, despite my unwillingness when I’m lost for words to write, I find myself disheartened, giving into the wonderings about such notions. Most of all, I wonder if I cannot write, despite liking it, then do I deserve to be called a writer? Shouldn’t writing come as easy as breathing? I hold prejudice, which ensued from the unstable relationship that I harboured with consistency. It has dyed with toxins my precious foundation of self-esteem that seems to shiver at every doubt, just waiting for a significant shake to crumble, little by little, upon the confidence that has been built slowly but surely. It asks assuredly the questions that fuel my uncertainty even more so. Do I become less of a writer when the wish to write becomes lost, when the words I wish would come tumbling instead start to stutter, as if held back by invisible walls of my mind that I cannot remove? What about when I do not have opinions to share, experience to weave beautifully, when I cannot find anything that attracts my mind to open into a verbatim, do I become less of a writer? I want to say no, the doubt says, maybe. 

I was taught from the beginning that one must run, one must not slow down, one must keep striving, one must not sit down. Not doing was a plague, one that I had been infested with, relaxation was always laziness, something better could be done at every instance, and everything could be done better at every instance. Not investing energy on a regular basis on a decided goal was to be frowned upon and noted as a factor that would steeply decline any chances that I might have of making my goals into accomplishments. Intense concentration upon one’s task is favorably perceived, but it must also be melted with the right formulation with a regular practice; otherwise, it is known as an erratic effort that is all waste. Only one that is perfectly done with the right amounts of concentration is to be awarded. Such foolish ways. 

My imagination tires out when it ponders why being engrossed in something that invigorates your being in ways that makes one feel their existence as meaningful shall be buried underneath the implications of such restrictive ways that only make one more susceptible to giving into not doing something at all even when one feels the urge to, the desperate call of it, to evade receiving disapproving glare from those who do not know the various dispositions that humans can be found to have, none so very flawed that they do not serve purpose for which they have been brought into the world, none that make it the human’s duty to enslave themselves to a uniform tailored in an image of ideal, whatever that might be. Unless, this fitting is for the play made in favor of a collective and ruled by that very collective, where rewards can only be granted for a performance well done and not for acting in a manner deemed right by the values of the self, lest one “unreasonable” character ruins the story by trying to create its own. Suffice to say, I do not find myself fond of such teachings and work to vehemently cast them away from my being entirely. 

I behold a modest amount of anguish if you cannot tell. My incidental emotions fuel me to give up the old ideas when they hear my mind replaying the doubts, because despite it all, I have come to believe that it would not matter if I were to be less of a writer, because despite it, I will write, because I wish to, because it is to be this way. Till when? No one knows, but till the time my soul feels its calls, I must answer. Even if I some days have not much to say, nothing of relevance for a populace, there is hardly a task I can recall in the present time that I would like to dedicate myself to for hours on end, for days and days. Not because I cannot stop writing, but because writing finds me time and time again, in different forms, to be expressed on a medium, in the privacy of my home, or in an outlandish world outside. 

I have a mind that chatters, wanting an audience if it can find one, but chatter it will even in silence. The thoughts it has accumulated, the hard-earned reasons, and the self-learned ways of being have taken years to polish, to be honed to a degree that I can speak of them, to possibly write about them. I would dedicate my lifetime to learning about life, and hence, if fate desires so, then write about it to share my experience with those who may find semblance in it. It matters little how deserving of a writer I am or not am, it matters that I believe the teachings of my life to be valuable, and the emotions that flow through them to be enriched with meaning. It remains one thing that I can, with absolute trust, make an offering to the world of. 

The unraveling will be ceaseless, to reclaim my skill for me to utilize, without bandaging upon it the label of if, how, and when, without fulfilling all the conditions imposed upon it. It will remain a continuation of conscious choice to make use of it because I solely wish to, uncoupled with someone else’s wishes for it to exist or not. I will hold on tight to my strength when it comes to removing the bricks that built a structure symbolic of ill intent. If I must, I will create meaning for instances when nothing could be written, when days turn into ungodly weeks that merge into torturous months and my hands burn without accompanying passion. I will trust, even in the silence, even in despondence, because I must. I will pursue persistence, and the only permission to take will be mine, to start a journey, to let it come to an end, or to stop in haste at my being’s insistence. I must believe in what I have. I must. I must. For myself, I must. 

From my heart, to yours.