Each time I’m about to post something on Facebook, a little voice inside my head begs me to stop. This is because I’m always wary of the interpretations. Silly I know, especially for someone who willingly publishes their thoughts out in the open. But there you have it – I get bored by the assumptions that I may be writing about a particular person or relationship in the past (And this may be the only person or relationship you’re aware of because you have no clue about all the others that have walked through the hidden labyrinths of my soul), or that I’m still nursing a broken heart, or that I’m sad about something that happened on the very day that I post.
The thing is, I’ve always considered myself a writer. And I’ve always hoped that the people who know me are aware of the same. So I write the things I write about because that’s what writers do – this is how we express ourselves, this is how we process the events in our lives, this is how we communicate with the rest of the world, and this is definitely how we watch our consciousness unfold. And except for rare occasions, we’re mostly writing about things that we are currently detached from. The things we write about are very often in the past and we’re able to process them with proper insight only in the future, which is now. At least, most of us do.
That’s not to say we don’t write while in the throes of emotional upheavals. We do that too because that is how we deal with stuff or grieve or undergo catharsis or even cry out for help. But we often keep those outpourings to ourselves. Some of us write furiously through long white nights and red hot days with a tinge of blue. And then we tear, burn, delete, destroy, discard, or shred any evidence of the fact that our chests once lay cut open, exposing a pulsating heart. And some of us hold on to the vestiges of these emotional churnings, freezing them for later use or even abuse, as the case may be. But a writer writes always. That’s what we do. Even when we’re not writing, we’re actually scripting out our unlived lives, dialoguing with the things you say or don’t say, punctuating your thoughts and feelings along with ours, and adding our own inflections to your word streams.
And some of us live with dark hidden spots within us, covered by impenetrable thick hard crusts, spots that were once flowing with the blood from our veins and the fibre of our beings. They hold within them the very things that could break us, drop us to our knees, or cause us to self-destruct in an instant. Things that could also raze us to the ground before we rise up from the ashes, renewed and reborn. These are things that if you read, you would be justified in saying comforting things like ‘Oh my gosh! I had no idea. I’m sorry…’ But we don’t write about them, at least not yet, because it would be like trying to show you the aftermath of a fire while it’s still burning, or the remnants of a shipwreck while it’s still drowning. It would be like inviting you to a party while we’re still cooking. And unless it’s a barbecue or teppanyaki, that doesn’t make much sense does it?