The truth hurts. We heard this phrase so many times but did we really pay attention to it? Why does the truth hurt? Why does it have to hurt? If we could live in a way when we are not pretending, not wearing masks, would the truth still hurt?
This is not a modern day expression so that brings me to a conclusion that the truth has always been hidden somehow. Shielded from the masses, buried deep within luminescent caves inside us. Yes, inside us. You read that right. When something hurts it’s because we associate it with ourselves. We take it personal. All we can think of is “that’s not fair” or “that’s not right” or “why me”. Oh, if I hear one more person crying out loud one more time “why me” I seriously need to resists laughing out loud and not hurt their feelings.
It took me a lot of effort and countless of self-analysis sessions to realise this: being untruthful makes me sick, not just to my stomach (that’s another expression I could analyse for hours) but to my whole being. I cannot pretend, I cannot play along, I just simply cannot act that it’s ok to accept illusions. Somehow my eyes opened and what I see sends me into a ‘question everything’ state. 80 – 90% of what surrounds me is pure bullshit. Excuse my language, but I’ve had enough.
I want to see people for who they are. Not who they portray to be. I want to be able to show my own real face to the world more often. This truth, that burns within us will erupt eventually one by one. And then how much of it will hurt for those who live in a fake reality? Who knows… but I’m certain that I can’t keep smiling at the face of illusion anymore.
The words are stuck again. It’s been a while since they erupted from me and it’s because I pushed away this side of me. When I start questioning and letting my thoughts to wonder, I heal myself by writing.
I feel chaos. I feel destruction. I feel the darkness but this time it’s not creeping up to me. I don’t let it. And because I don’t let it, the words get stuck. How ironic. When I let myself go deep down into the darkness, I can express myself a whole lot better. I can’t even find an adjective to this but simply using everyday words that are so un-descriptive.
What have I become? What do I want? Who am I? If I don’t know then how should I realise if I’m not on the right track? When I set my mind on something, I achieve it. I’m a getter. But when I don’t know what it is that I want to get it becomes tricky.
Should I just enjoy the natural flow of life or should I set my vision and clear up the image that is a big grey blur right now?
I have moments when a strong urge to write is burning inside me, yet I cannot form a cohesive sentence. I know that I’m not the only one who faces this frustration occasionally. The question is: what do you do when this stubborn block hits your brain? Personally, I carry on writing and I end up with a hard-to-decipher, frustrated mumble. Like this one:
Delete. Type. Delete, delete, delete. Start again. I have something very important to tell you, yet it doesn’t want to become a form of words. It burns my soul with its white fire and tightens my throat when I’m attempting to say it out loud. A heavy exhale. Yes that helps temporarily, let me do it again. Dizziness kicks in; well at least my physical symptoms are now in line with my emotional ones. Start typing again. My fingertips are hitting the keyboard at such a rapid speed that my skin is burning up. Sloooow down, this is not making sense. Delete, delete.
New paragraph. Organise the tornado of thoughts. I need to understand where to start and why do I want to start. Do I want to start? Stop confusing yourself even more, no questions. Just type. Two more sentences are formed, let me read them back. Doesn’t this sound miserable? Was that another question?! Hush now consciousness, this truth inside my soul needs to be born. It needs to be shared with you but firstly I need to admit it to myself and stop running away from it. This is not a rabies ridden dog trying to bite my arm off but this is…delete, delete.
The realisation hits so hard on my chest that I struggle to breathe for a few seconds. I do not know what it is that I must tell myself. It all remains the playhouse of Confusion.
Words. Letters. Some strange lines scribbled on paper. Or they are flickering back from the screen of your electrical device. Thought processes materialised into the physical world. Touch it – you can’t feel it.
Why would you feel the written words? You see them, yes. But how can you create something that when you touch you don’t feel it? Although when you read them back, the whirlpool of emotions will start stirring. Can we really put our feelings into the forms of letters and dots and question marks? When you read my letter-chain, does the same feeling kick you in the stomach as the one I had to fight off? I don’t think so.
To put down words onto paper is one of the little joys in life that recharges me. I’m trying to remember when or how it all started. I was around 15 when poetry and literature in general started to interest me.
Until that time I still read what I had to in school but I cannot recall any enjoyment. Poetry got through to me. Understanding the hidden messages, feeling the words. As I read them out loud to myself I felt the power of its wholeness. Perfection. Saying what you feel without explaining it all. So I started writing poetry first at that age. Not so great ones. Childish rhymes but with a hint of passion boiling behind the words. Nothing concrete in my soul yet, just the desire to create something that is me. I’ve always been a little selfish especially at that age so perhaps that’s what fuelled my desire for writing in the beginning. I wanted to be great. To be the master of the words. I wanted people to question and analyse what I had written. I believed that true self-expression was to remain mysterious, to get others trying to understand me. But even I didn’t understand me back then. I do now, and as I carried on writing I opened the door slightly more. Show them who I really am. Let everyone know what runs through my mind, what cuts into my soul, what makes my heart beat faster.
Once I was at the stage when I truly accepted myself and learnt to love honestly the person who’s hiding within, my writing slowly started to reflect that. Now all I want to do is to entertain others, make them think or perhaps open their eyes a tiny bit more to look at life from different angles. The moment I evolved into writing fiction was a gigantic milestone for me. I no longer felt the ego. I didn’t want people to worship me because now I can do that for myself.
I’m curious to find out what will be the next stage for my writing. Until then, I honestly hope that I can entertain you along the way and share my journey with you. Because without you, dear reader, I’m just talking to myself.