Although the number of words written on this blog since the day it started is close to one million, the unwritten portion of my thoughts would dwarf what you might now be thinking is interesting. Every writer has hidden scenes that keep playing in their heads, yearning for perfect articulation, paused by their own harsh criticism. A writer would start remembering a moment, and as I wouldn’t be able to judge whether this is how it goes in others’ minds, as a producer of words my process of reminiscing is afflicted; although I’d be aware that I am remembering something, I am in actual fact writing it on the back of my eyelids. When the moment comes for those lines to manifest in the real world, the fingers of their bearer and his literary faculties would stand guard, and at cruel times, would snap their beauty asunder, burying them into no return. My headaches are caused by lack of expression.
I had originally intended to wait before writing this until I could refresh myself with a book or two. I usually like the warming up good prose does to my faculty of language, and some of my best pieces hold witness to that effect. I couldn’t; my current read list basically annoys. I then intended to flip through a favorite scene in Jane Eyre, one that is especially related to what might become of a post I so want to write one day, and I had sent my sister to my room to fetch the novel, and although it stands in royal pride amongst its brethren, the sister had actually failed to find it, and I had to resort to those eyelids of mine again, watching sunlight as it shyly brushes against my living room carpet, remembering every scene I had before failed to capture into words, all the while risking the relapse of my headache.
You see, in addition to my strain as a writer, I also have a moral burden. Many of which you haven’t read was stopped before by a thinly alert conscience. Whether the verdicts issued across all those years are right is of no relevance here and merits a different discussion; I am just stating that some of the most beautiful moments I’ve lived, and the rarest souls I’ve sensed, were rather coated away from readers’ eyes because of how much I believed it’d mislead them into thinking things of me which I am not, or that would irk their sighs into ways I have not intended.
On top of what I’ve just bored you with comes a final existential question into my very fabric of being, and that is concerned with why I think this way. Why do I observe with such high fervency? What is it that I have that would make me consume all the ink of my finite emotion into writing what only lived for the fleeting moment it was? Why would a single glimpse of a scene, too incomplete to even deserve narration, yet too profound for ignorance, come to me each and every single time I catch one of its sisters? This causes a very strenuous chain of moments to formulate around my heart and suffocate its tranquil throbbing. And why, world, do I have to tell? Why can I not just observe and wallow in silence? Why does beauty that doesn’t seek attention become the sole subject of it through poor wanderers like myself? What kind of occupation is this, world?
I finish my green tea and tell myself that this attempt will fail like all of its miscarried predecessors, and that I will finish the night with yet another wordless struggle, a fiasco. This is me proving myself right, or wrong.
And I proved myself right,