Sitting in a corner of Coffee Bean shivering to my icy death on a painfully uninspiring Thursday evening, a text from a long-time friend makes me realise that the elusive love we spend our entire lives looking for are actually seeds sown in the ground and waiting to bloom.
There is potential for love everywhere. A slight liking towards a new friend, a flush that blossoms on your cheeks when he calls out your name to say good morning along the hallway, the slight touch of an attractive stranger when he shuffles restlessly in his seat. Perhaps we’re all too blind from the lists we have subconsciously constructed from the people we would like to have in our lives to notice the ones that actually are.
While we’re constantly searching for the coifs of perfectly gelled hair and rolled jeans that leave a perfect amount of his ankles exposed, we miss out on the things we wanted in the first place altogether. We push away inklings of love, the could haves and the would haves, in search of what reality tells us to be the perfect relationship. The healthy one.
And while we put on veils, masks and a wonderfully set up disguise, we miss out on the ones who love us for we who are underneath. We miss the ones who internally acknowledge the relentless efforts we put into making ourselves perfect yet love us blemished, crumbled and crushed anyway.
If I continue to write this much, one day I will be surrounded by a room that has nothing but hard disc drives and broken promises. Some people want to write and coax out every word and letter with a desperation that seeps out from every sentence. Others have it easy and have the poetry flow to their fingers when the need be, perfuming the papers like flowers to rain. The rest, like me, write when they don’t have time to do so, and don’t when they do. The cursed people. Those who only have inspiration when they are forced to put them to waste.
Writing soothes me. I’ve probably said it a million times. It makes time pass quicker, makes things become insignificant and helps qwell the bubbles of emotions I cannot control. Writing is the only thing I can do better when I am drunk, it is the only thing whose prowess is magnified when I’m sad, it is the only thing that keeps me sane when the world confounds me. Writing is like therapy. Depressed? Lonely? Feeling dizzy? Prescribe yourself a doze of writing and a lot of imagination. You’ll feel better after the first word.
People say the ability to write is a flair. No it isn’t. Writing takes practice, and practice equates reading. Writing also equates to music since you need your words to take on a certain rhythm and eventually form a melody. And writing also equates knowledge since you cannot create analogies out of thin air. It is also creativity since sometimes you have to make believe, and it’s also one part the ability to feel alot, cos writing is all about forcing your thoughts into the minds of others. In a sense, writing needs you to be okay at many things. You need to be okay at listening to music, in recognising beats and melodies. You need to be okay in seeing the world and remember things. Not necessarily perfectly, but remember the intriguing parts anyway. It requires you to be okay at crying at the littlest things and smiling at nothing, it requires you to be okay at letting your emotions go. It requires to be OK with everything, but perfect at nothing. Cos perfect people can’t be writers. Writers are flawed.
The best thing about writing? You can write and if it isn’t that good, people will ignore you. And when you’re good, people will still ignore you. That’s when you’re doing it right. That’s when you know you’re writing for things that matter not to others, but to yourself. And the feeling of being ignored after you’ve put your life story and all your thoughts into a single post? It’s incredible. It’s like liberation on a micro scale. A micro, but equally awesome scale.