What do you see writing as?
Similitude of Writing
Writing is like a tug in the dark. You never clearly see what’s going on. Sometimes, if you’re sensitive enough and lucky, you can feel the reigns move in your favour.
Writing is like a painted canvas. A blend of hues, colours and gentle strokes that can be found in words outlined in feelings.
Writing can be frustrating. I can almost feel the reigns slide from my grasp. I have emotions bottled inside, why can I not express them! The reigns pull me along, grappling and panting. I cannot see where I’m going. Blindly tugged along, I can only feel. Narrow pathways, slimy tunnels. Dare I let go?
Writing can be victorious! Ah! The thrill, the rush. The subtle outpouring of joy when an outlet is found. An outlet of my feelings, my ideas. An outlet for my very eager mind.
Writing is self discovery. A little tug of your own will, a little pulling to your own direction and then, a little giving. A little freedom to be pulled to the path of your mind. A path where emotions so great have a chance to be marginally expressed, captured in a line of well expressed words, forever filled with a fragrance of that emotion.
Writing is art. A flick of a brush here. A flick of a brush there. Watch it come alive. Every stroke important, every colour blend vital.
Writing is a lover. It twirls this way and that. Coming closer and then out of reach. Dancing it’s way to a rhythm unknown. I’m unhurried, patient. For I know with time, it’ll dance into my arms again.
Writing is a game. A well crafted game, like chess. This way, then that. I could give up my pawn to keep my queen. A better player could keep both, yet still win.
With my pen in hand this time, I sit still. Waiting for an inspiration, perhaps a tug of thought. I stare and stare. Yet nothing comes. I absently dribble. Subconsciously, I hear the chimes of the clock. Tick tick! Tock Tock! I smile. I get up, I let it be.
For writing is never far away, writing is within.
Writing is a beautiful piece. A string of words welling from deep inside. A blessing from the creator, unbound, poured free, as limitless as your mind can be. So, come on, let’s try again. Pick up the pen, let’s draft again. Then, for certain, we’ll see. Writing can truly never be still.
Obba Immaculata. 2019
