Writing sucks…

I love writing. I love it so much that I find that there are no words to describe our relationship.

But why do I love writing?

Face-to-face conversation is an infinitely better way of putting a message across. We are given so much to work with. We are allowed to increase our pitch with incredulity, derision, surprise. Yet we are also given the ability to drop to a low murmur to express love, secrecy, passion. Our face is also a wonderful tell. Eyebrows rise, lips twitch, eyes frown, crow’s feet distort, and foreheads create sideways hills. And the hands. The things we do with them during talks. Do we cross them over our chest? Put them behind our backs? Do we wave them around? The possibilities are endless.

But the very same features found in conversation are the features that repel me. Too many variables, too many things to keep in mind. It is especially tiresome when you feel nothing, as I do. Sometimes I slip, forget to raise my pitch. Or perhaps I forget to squint when I laugh.

So I write. Writing is perfect. There are no bodily gestures involved. Writing is anonymous. There is a wall between you and the intended recipient, if there is, in fact, a recipient. Reading a piece is a distant form of “”communication”” and yet, sometimes, it feels as if you’re reading a piece of someone’s soul, his very essence.

Above all else, written works make readers romanticize the writer. His work is beautiful, he must be beautiful too, right? How often have we read books and imagined the author’s countenance, only to have that image shattered because of a quick Google search or of a glance at the last page of most books, the page that contains the author’s picture. You’ll probably never know who wrote this. Only clues will guide you if you bother trying to find out. For example, my school and batch which I have placed. Why would I lie? Genius craves an audience, as I remember from a book I read somewhere.

But I apologize. Earlier I wrote that I felt nothing. I do feel things. I feel emotions as anger, happiness, confusion. Else, why write? What is there to write when there is nothing to express? It’s just that I find talking trivial and tedious. But it was invented, was it not? So I must be in the wrong.

I look back on what I’ve written and I see that it is a mess. There is a semblance of order but for the most part it is a clusterfuck of things that I’ve always wanted to confess to a kind audience as yourselves. But isn’t it apt? A disorganized work from a disorganized mind.

I’ll be around. Don’t fret. I’ll be among you talking, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. The next time you see someone forget to smile at something funny, or forget to frown at something distasteful remember this post. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels this way.