Yesterday, somebody asked me, “Why do you write?” I stayed silent because I knew that the question wasn’t as direct as it looked. He asked again, “No, Khushboo, tell me why do you really like to write?”
I just couldn’t answer. I could have come up with different replies, like how it heals, like how it is so beautiful, how it keeps me up all night, how I have never felt more engaged in anything else as much as this before, but I knew that I would be wrong. Not because all of those things were not true, they certainly are- but because maybe, most of those things didn’t belong in the answer to his question.I thought a lot about his question. Then, when I realized my answer, I realized that I need to share it here. I need to put it out on the blog, because this blog is something that keeps me inspired everyday. This is not a commercial or a materialistic way for me to feel a part of the 21st century social media life. Instead, this is where I see my inspiration take form into stories and poems and artworks. This is what lets me sleep more satisfied every night.
So, maybe I sort of owe it to everyone who reads the blog and also to myself, to write this.
Allen Ginsberg once said, “To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard” Well, this is me listening to his advice now.
I started writing because I believed that this was one of the few things that I loved and which loved me back. It just makes me feel safer. I’ve experienced a lot in my life, most of the times, I’ve tried to be euphemistic about things and I have tried to conceal the bad parts. But, I was wrong to do that. I don’t expect to turn into a literati or into some huge author overnight. Everything has it’s own process. I guess, I’ve understood a lot about a lot of people by just writing. All the hypocrite friends flash in front of my eyes, all the times I have been weak, broken and have felt that I would never be able to heal have flashed in front of my eyes. But then I’ve also realized, that we all can heal, that we can have a better life. Everyone has differences with the other and maybe we never solve those differences because we are not truly honest with ourselves.
But, writing is different. It makes sure that you’re truly, unabashedly honest and brutal with yourself. You see yourself, your family, your friends for exactly who they are. Writing made me realize how honest I can be with them and with myself. I wrote letters to the people who mean the most to me all the time. I’ve opened my heart out to them. And, I think I believe that they have understood my message. Writing has made me practice humility. It is an humbling act because you know that you will never be the best. Each mind is so unique, that all we are capable of doing is embracing each other and embracing that uniqueness.Dan Brown said in the Da Vinci Code that, “That’s why we study history. So that we don’t kill ourselves.” Maybe, that’s true. Maybe it is not. Sometimes it perplexes me on how much we can know and how much we can’t. It amazes me how sometimes we choose to overlook the fault lines and go right ahead and watch those same cracks turn into walls of hatred and grief. We all grieve, we all suffer. But, you know what?
Pain is the most humbling thing you ever will feel.
I went to watch a theatrical piece with my friends once. A lot of things changed that night. I realized my close friends, I realized that sometimes the shades of the leaves of the trees sparkle when the streetlight falls onto them, I realized that your high school cursh will always break your heart, I also realized that there will also be somebody who will make sure you’re okay and take care of you, get you food and chocolate ice-cream.
I’ve seen a lot of girl’s breakdown at places I couldn’t even think of. I’ve seen them break down in shopping malls, in parking lots, in clubs, in schools and so on. Why do I say girls- well, because well, I empathize better with them. It’s easier to connect (No gender bias here, lol) But, you know, the worst moment for them is not in the parking lots or the malls, but the worst moment for them is when they look at their face in the mirror. They’re shattered. Most of the times, I can feel their pain. That night, I tried to not let myself get shattered. I sat quietly on the way back, I went to my room and wrote. All the events just tumbled up. The anger, the hate, the remorse, the pain it all piled up. But then, writing healed it.
It always does.
I read it again the next day and realized that it was so bland. And naked. And exposed. I didn’t feel touché about it. I didn’t feel ashamed. I stared and it and realized that it was all there. In black and white, with no shades of grey. No reds making me feel the remorse anymore and no pink making me feel shy. That’s when I realized that all the anger had gone away and I was alright.
I felt like me again. And I liked it.
This is not a sympathy blog post. I just realized that I had to do this. I had to write this for me. Like I mentioned earlier, I sort of owed it to me. We’re all growing up and we’re all going to be mature adults someday. It’s time we face the reality.
So, this is me; Facing one facet of reality.
Stay passionate, stay loved.