I sometimes stare at the blank page, and think of writing as wringing the mind and spilling its contents on the paper; or more accurately (as I find my handwriting atrocious), letting it flow through my fingers, and onto the keys of my old MacBook Pro. I allow them to leak, word by word, like droplets from a loosely shut valve.
I discovered, while fully immersed in this process, that the blank page is not really on the screen before me; not a canvass that I hack with a paint-loaded brush or a cup where I let the pulp and juice from an orange ooze into. No, the screen is not where the blank page lies.
The blank page is a space so empty, that neither light nor darkness exists in it, but where both can be brought into very easily when willed. It is a space where everything is welcome; colours, music, emotions, words. It is a sanctum where my world is conceived, and its address is in my head.
Whenever I write, there is a strange phenomenon that occurs in my consciousness. It doesn’t quite say the words, or show it, as these are merely the symptoms of what is going on in my brain. It feels more like carving, where the chiselled scar is the thought, shaping itself the more I tap into it and becoming its own realised copy of what is otherwise an obscure and formless breath of air. It rings in my head like electricity running wild in a vast network of copper, messages sent from nowhere, glorious bolts of lightning in the sky. This is a phenomenon that I have become so obsessed with exploring, experiencing, and mastering — and this is why I have decided to become a Writer.
Yesterday, I think it was, or whatever day that is now, I wrote an odd piece. I printed it, folded it twice, not knowing what to do with it, and is now laid out in front of me, finally discovering its purpose as I share it here:
“There’s something about my fear of being vulnerable that makes me question if I’m really cut out to be human. I just don’t want to do it, you know. Show my face in public when I have a big cystic acne on my face. Talk to people in the morning. Talk to people. Share my thoughts on social media. Co-exist with another living and breathing judgment-capable being. I just can’t anymore with human interaction, and yet my depravity of it is the cause of my misery, the same misery that makes me so afraid to live my life. So whatever I choose to do now, either way, I am well and truly fucked.
But the thing is, whether I’m cut out for it or not, I am human. And the many things I rationalise, wrestle with, and hate about myself, are precisely the things that make me a human being. So there is no reason to fight it or to run away from it. I don’t even need to accept it if I don’t feel like it. Because in the end, being human is only built around two options: to live, or to die. And if you haven’t already learned by now, I don’t care to share which one I choose.”
Now I don’t know whether it’s my profound and chronic lack of sleep or the fact that I wrote this in the morning, at work, being miserable in a career that I spent six years mindlessly slogging away to please other people and to earn a decent living. But this piece of paper is a sad piece of work, and yet it struck me so hard to realise that it is mine. I am this self-loathing person. This lonely, anxious, and angry person. So I share this work now despite its flaws, its raw and contradicting persona, and its intended incompleteness; because it is honest, and I need to start telling the truth more often.
It is true that I am anxious about sharing my own thoughts. It is true that this is making me stressed and depressed and be filled with existential dread. What is not true is the lack of reason to fight it. Because yielding to depravity, and misery, and self-deprecation, builds the case to choose the second option.
I choose to live, and I do care to share what I think. I choose to live in the company of people who believes in me, to spend my days reading great works of art, and to sit in a room with a keyboard and a pot of tea, writing fiercely. And I will share what I think, but only if my thoughts are honest, and mine. These are the only two premises I will allow my writing to build itself upon.
Be gone with you, wretched witch of criticism. Burn in hell you falsely-comforting blanket of depression. Fuck you, sleepless nights spent in the company of my fear of being vulnerable. I laugh maniacally as my fingers dig into the keys, and I cast away all my demons. You will not stop me from living the way I intend to, for alas, I have gone mad! I am free from you at last!
In their wake, I call upon my new and magnificent imaginary friends, born out of my love of their amazing work. Seneca, Albert Camus, George Orwell, Ludwig Wittgenstein you beautiful genius, Noriko Ogiwara, Haruki Murakami, Lois Lowry, Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, Anne Dillard, Elizabeth Gilbert, Robert Greene, Ryan Holiday, James Clear, Viktor E. Frankl, and to countless others that drink my tea and save me from the perils of my former friends. In my mind, you whisper to me, your voices kind and mellifluous, words you have written which give my life meaning. I thank you for sharing your lives, and with gratitude, I now share mine.
Although my private portfolio is merely a bunch of journal entries, uneven short stories, and unfinished novels, I will fix them, and finish them, and share them on this page, along with my poems which wouldn’t mind their company. Whether or not they are read or appreciated, they will learn to sit in this place, and I will make a home for them here.
I shy away from calling myself a Writer because I feel society expects so much from that title. But having written things over the years, and held them close to my chest, or tossed them into the garbage can, I have learned that being a writer is not about being published, it is not even about sharing. At least for me, it is merely about the act of writing, and doing it over, and over, and over again.
So why share them now? Why bother going through the gut-wrenching act of writing a manifesto, and flinging myself so boldly into the doorstep of other people’s free time? Well, I love writing. And whether I’m good at it or not doesn’t matter to me now, that stuff will sort itself out the more I do it. I love writing. And I believe that when you love something so purely and wholeheartedly, you must share it. Because the ultimate purpose of love is to be shared.
I am terrified. That is still true. But this fear in me has taken on a new form, a faint innocent cry, like the wailing of a newborn child jolted by the sensation of breathing for the first time. My skin is crawling, my insides are turning, and I feel like being sick at the thought of posting this online. Maybe I will throw up after I send this out into the world, but I know it will feel like purging the poison in my system, from a long night of drinking and wanting to be numb.
So here it is, world. Here I am. Do with my love as you please. Take it, hate it, pass it on, or give some of your love back in exchange. I am vulnerable at your feet.