SATURATED TALES
“The only thing worth writing about is
the human heart in conflict with itself.”
William Faulkner
the entanglement of choices with Content
To the dearest you,
I hope with this letter I bring to you the realisation that choices were an inherent part of your life. They were never supposed to be given by someone else, at their terms and conditions. You already had them clutched in your tiny hands as you were born in this bright yet gloomy world. Difficult? They might have been. Missing? They were not.
But what do you do with the choices when the world points its bold finger in one direction and your soul points it in another? How do you choose when it feels that the choice has been ripped away from your fingers…
what makes healing come home?
To the dearest you,
Back when I first encountered what it felt like to have an irrevocable rupture in one’s reality, it was unknown to me that there existed something called healing. The word to me meant little, nor did I ever use it in my day-to-day life. What we now popularly call the healing journey was then just the beginning of pain in my life, to the extent that it brought me here, to the extent that now I know more about pain itself.
When something huge clashes into you midway, there is hardly the remembrance of what path you were walking, there only remains the memory of pain and the…
the unchanging desire to see the other changing
To the dearest you,
There exists this perception in those I experience around me, the notion that my life doesn’t pronounce happiness quite the same, or that the way of my being seems to be quite harmful for the psyche, or that it is decidedly strange, and therefore must be mended, if not by my willingness, then by someone else’s will.
All these colloquial musings about another’s life. It’s a strange notion when one thinks about it, but not strange enough for me to have not come about it at a certain time, have felt the calls of such for another human being. Initially, when I began to explore the functioning of myself…
The Act of writing and the doubts that chase it
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…
©
Raevenora