Of finding the unknown, and knowing what to find

A lot of times I question myself, why do I write? Why am I drawn to blank sheets of paper and a good old pen time and again? What is it, that keeps me going to it like a moth moves to a flame? For it is my destruction and my resurrection. My means of abandon and my means of salvation. How I stay afloat on this thin glacier that life seems and how I drown each time, losing all hope to come up to the surface again.

 For a long time, I believed I write for applaud. After all who doesn’t love all the love that comes their way, that feeling when someone gets it, gets what you have been trying to say, no matter how long ago you felt it, how long ago you wrote it. But at that one moment, you both are on the same page. Literally and metaphorically. At that one moment, it doesn’t matter how different your cultures are, how old or young or poor or rich or dark or light skinned ambitious or lax or a dancer or an accountant, whoever you are, wherever you come from. At that one moment, your connection transcends all those differences and you are one.

 And this is what I believed, I write for the reader, for the sheer want of being understood, to connect to another human on a spiritual level. But it has taken me some while to realize this in fact, I write for the luxury of understanding, of forming a connection to myself. Of understanding these swirls of emotions that engulf me, the seldom tides of happiness as high as the as the ones reached by seas on nights of the full moon, and the more prevalent lows, the ones in which you feel like you’re drowning into a bottomless pit, with no escape, no relief; for what can even relieve you from the prison of your own thoughts, from the self inflicted pains you so masochistically are drawn to.

So I write this time, not to be understood, but to understand. To look at myself from a peeping hole when it is too difficult to look in a mirror. For being an unattached distant observer to my self orchestrated catastrophy.

 I write, when it is too difficult to fathom what exactly is it that doesn’t let me come up to the surface; and even more difficult to find the right words to describe that feeling of being pulled down. I write, to not paint myself a pretty picture but to unhinge this mask of superficies that we all our forced to wear. Not to laminate the ugliness behind a rosy tint but to shatter the glass and revel in its brokenness.

I write not to understand the world because I finally know I never can, but to understand my perception of it. I write, not to cheer myself up. Not to shroud this feeling of decay, of being lost, and not the good kind, but to lay bare each thread of discontent, to lose myself deeper still into this tornado of thoughts.

 Just hoping I am thrown off to a better place.