Pushing Boundaries

I must be honest. I have no idea how this will turn out. It already sounds like a diary entry to me, or a blog post from some far-distant past that seems so far yet so close. I write (or in this case and many others, type) to lend some reality to thoughts. To put things on record.

And yet I harbour doubt, and feel a glass wall hemming me in on all sides, plaguing me with a sense of futiility as I endeavour to be creative, throw the windows of my mind open and take in the beautiful things that I know are to be enjoyed and appreciated.

Writing is both beauty and beast at the same time.

Beauty flowers when writing is stripped of expectations and when limits imposed — that are there to enforce objectivity and extract a ‘clear’ response — are removed. The words flow forth effortlessly or at least without discernible strain, and a feeling of ‘this is what I’m supposed to be doing’ surges forth quietly.

Beast encroaches when doubt floods the consciousness silently and insidiously, drowning the words that were supposed to be penned down, in a soup of broken sentences, missing adjectives, and blank spaces. Emptiness and a sense of disconnect ensue.

I like to write. Somehow writing always stands out to me, and there is a constant itch in the back of my head that signals to me ‘Write! Write!’. I would love to write those small feature articles you see in independent lifestyle magazines. Take a photo, write something about it, pull in a couple of from-the-heart musings and there you have it — a beautifully written article.

Far more work than how it sounds above.

I want to write.