You are here of your own accord.
Words that come are forced back, you push them into the darkest corner of being, where they fester, and they fester inside and try to pierce through. During those moments I scream a scream but no sound comes out. The harder the scream the quieter the sound. Mouth stretched apart, jaws in danger of cracking under the extremity of the pressure exerted upon them but still the scream has no sound. This makes me scream even louder. I have not known such an amicable rage. The force of its tranquility is overwhelming, blood rushing to the head, aggression bubbling beneath as though a dormant volcano, that has yet to make its last mark. But on the outside is a placid lake with timid ripples, a placid lake mocking the world with the travesty of armour.
This world manifests itself in the absurdist of ways, the jail before me, the jail beyond you, the jail infinitely. It is the human want that imprisons; the compulsion to write has brought me to this point, to this room. I picked up the pen; left marks on the page, let those neat loops mesmerize me and allowed them to convince me I was good at something. And now I am dying.
Everyday, with each word I suppress, with each word I let slip away, each word that does not make the page, my heart skips a beat, a beat the heart of a writer cannot afford to miss. It is not the skipping heartbeats of a man in love; it is the heartache of an aging man, a dying man, and a man dying to escape.
The shackles of those letters before my fingers, that compel me to tie myself to them again and again, make me want to bite my skin off and let the black blood pour forth so I never have to think about creation again. The secrets that kill you in those sad hours between sobriety and oblivion are the hell you find your words in. Satan was once in heaven too, but the world has forsaken him and he grows tired, waiting, believing and hoping that there is enough empathy in the universe to save us from our own tortured souls.
I don’t know why I decided to become a writer, of all the careers I could have picked, I don’t really know why I chose this one. I think its because once I knew how to hold a pencil, writing was all I did and then I fell in love with movies, because there was nothing else to love.
I wonder what it’s like to be a person who doesn’t write, how does that feel? I am sure their fingers don’t twitch and they never have to ask strangers for pens, they probably carry them any way, in fact they are probably the people who I have to borrow pens from. What does it feel like to be a person who carries around a pen but doesn’t write? What does it feel like to be the person hassled by writers like me who don’t carry pens?
I could be someone who only gets up at night to use the toilet or drink water, instead of rocking back and forth at 4 am because I am devastated that I tried to kill off my character because of creative block. Maybe I would actually sleep and not go looking for fishermen to teach me what they know about the sea. I wouldn’t spend my days huddled in a chair mulling over the same thing ten times in a hundred different ways, all to heighten creativity. Oh thank the gods, I wouldnt know what creative block is, I would be blissfully and painlessly unaware of that agony. I don’t even know what that means.
All I know is I am reading a really interesting article on The Guardian. An interview with loads of writers on why they write. I wish I could be the kind of person that doesn’t want this. But I can’t, no matter what I do, I will always want this, I will only stop wanting it when I am long gone and my soul couldn’t rest if I hadn’t done this. So in order to have a peaceful easeful death, I must do this because the thought of not doing it, is so much worse.