To Write, Imperfectly

I’ve been wondering why I haven’t been writing prose or stories on my blog or anywhere else online for quite awhile now, and the answer does seem to be eluding me.

Do I not have the writing prowess to churn out decent work on specific topics? 

Do I not want to share my opinion on issues so as to avoid scrutiny or discussions?

I don’t think it’s either of the above. I suspect it’s because I’ve gotten tired of looking at my own thoughts and opinions beyond the place where they are most comfortable in, which is in my head, naturally. To see these thoughts translate into words on a page or a virtual space, it seems like an imperfect expression of all the massive mental workings that is going on within the tiny physical confines of the brain (and not mind, because who can quantify the mind, physically or otherwise?).

An article, a prose, while they do essentially capture a certain aspect of your thoughts, are limited and committed merely to how you craft them. Once you commit them into ink or print, they create an impression of you and your thoughts that may or may not be true; the words give the author a personality, and vice versa. It may reveal a part of who you intrinsically are, or it may misportray it regrettably.

And we haven’t gotten to the emotional bit of writing yet, a domain that is arguably distinct from the cognitive process itself. Words at best can only give a faint reflection of the raw emotions that arise in a person at any given point of time. Since it is already itself a mammoth of a task for a person to accurately pinpoint to himself how he is feeling at any one moment (without even determining the reason for the emotion), how much more difficult would it be to express them in words to impress upon others these emotions? 

This is exactly why brilliant writers are always so celebrated by the world. They have the ability to capture, even if imperfectly, the raw essence of emotions and parts of the human spirit, as well as convert sophisticated trains of thoughts into understandable language. They make us more comprehensible to ourselves. 

To be able to write is a gift, and indeed one that is often powerful and influential.  Looking back at the above paragraphs I’ve written, I realise that perhaps I am not that weary of watching my thoughts play out on a piece of paper or space anymore. I think the physical manifestation of thoughts in the form of words is beautiful (though at the same time essentially imperfection), and perhaps it is this inadequacy that is touching and perfect at the same time. It reveals the sophistication of the human mind, and the dynamism of everything around us.

Will I start writing more again? Most likely.

The Paper In Your Hand

cool, quiet night

It has often been said that our lives are governed by fate and everything has been predetermined way before we were conceived into this world through our noble mother. It means that everything is cast in the stars and the way our lives turn out is set and out of our control. This means that our destination has long been derived and our journey there is but a path already charted out for us to follow step for step; this in short translates that we are but sightseers on the grand and vast journey of life. It is like tracing through pre-drawn lines that are already in place on a sheet of paper.

On the other hand, people argue that while many people believe that fate and destiny is the governance of our lives, the true ruler of our lives is actually known as choice. This is a contrast and contradiction to the first idea and this utterly dismisses and disregards the concept of fate/destiny. On this side, it is claimed that everyone has a choice in everything, and that it is these choices that we make that guide and lead us onto the roads that we have taken or are about to take. Every decision that we arrive at and come to will determine something and every choice we make will lay the route ahead of us; nothing is preset beforehand.  This means that we are in full control of the way our life runs and we are the true masters of our own fate and destiny. It is like writing on a clean and fresh sheet of paper.

What kind of paper do you think you are holding on to?