We read because its fulfils the need of quality content in our life. It helps us quench our thirst for information that we love to gather and discuss.
Who doesn’t love to indulge in an unputdownable novel that takes you away from this rotten play of reality. Because sometimes the life of a protagonist seems to be far more interesting than the mundane life we live in, because staying up till late at night, reading until our eyes hurt as we empathise with the lead, feels far more fulfilling than following the set routines of the day.
I’ve stayed up nights, bawling my eyes out reading breathtaking novels, and spent the next day mourning about the end of another set of pages sown together bound in its covers, and the following week analysing everything that happened in the story and re-reading my favourite parts.
One short silent drive all alone, and an old song playing in the background, made me wonder what is it in us that makes us want to write. What is it in some of us that makes us want to pen down a thought (or at least try to), an experience, a feeling, a journey?
Is it the almost orgasmic sight of new stationary, or the sight of a clean desk and the wonderful view?
Is it the brightly lit room, or perhaps the reason is a personal one.
Such as analysing and understanding history or processing internal emotional turmoil. Thinking about it, writing in itself is a courageously cowardly act. I shall explain how that oxymoron makes sense.
Living with the curse of not being able to say what one really wants to and not wanting to display everything you feel, makes one want to hide away what they really feel. Brush it off under the carpet like they never existed. Bottling it up like they would never come out. Playing pretend. All the time.
But then, certain very subtle incidents, a text, a picture, a little handwritten note, a notification on facebook, or a mention of someone’s name at the dining table during dinner brings all those carefully dusted off, aggressively ignored feelings back to you staring at you right in the face.
The emotionally unavailable self that you convinced yourself you were, now feels your heart clench, feels the emptiness in your belly like there were crators in there, when you feel so breathless, you have to wipe the sweat off of your forehead. As then you realise all that turmoil coming back to you, you silently cry in the bathroom with the faucet turned up, you refuse to accept that something bothers you, you take a walk all by yourself, you tightly hug your pillow at night, forcing your gloomy self to sleep.
And then as the keys mockingly stare at you, you start to type. You dust off your diary and start to write on a fresh page. You use the art of writing, not as a source of entertainment for someone else, but a way to let it all out.
Hence there is always a little truth in every fiction. Possibly a little bitterness in every pun. Some call it inspiration. This subtle use of experience, I like to call an escape.
Some of us don’t always write to impress you, Dear Reader. Some of us write because that is the only way we fulfil our need to inspire, or if stated blatantly, our urge to clean what lies underneath that carpet, to save our scathed selves from what we’ve been so diligently bottling up.
Perhaps that is how my coward self craves to come out as the courageous, overtly unapologetic amateur writer.
Or perhaps that reason hasn’t yet made itself clear.