I’ve forgotten what it’s like to write for fun, or to write because I feel the urge to put down on paper some desperate urge or some deep feeling that can’t be voiced, ever.
I put it down to my “creative writer” title, forcing me to be the most critically creative among a sea of amateurs who can’t write worth anything, so much so that the plain but eloquent prose I put down to sell Fixed Deposits, refrigerators, sometimes clothes, sometimes savings accounts, seems absolutely brilliant to them. But nobody wants what I REALLY write, they want the good stuff, the stuff that sells.
The descent in to selling your soul to the devil is so subtle, so gradual and unfelt that it’s happening-you can feel it-and yet you don’t have the time or, more likely, the energy to stop it. Soon, all you think of is in terms of “copy”, not prose, and never, ever poetry.
I rebelled, I tried to instill the words I love in to that deathless advertorial, but no body wanted it. So I stocked up on my superlatives and dragged out from my soul that little talent for convincing that I unknowingly possessed. Everyone thinks I’m a good writer.
But I know, as I write it, how I’m giving away one of the best parts of me, the purest gift I’ve been given, the one I treasure above all; my words, the poetry I hug secretly to my soul.
And so, this. This attempt to salvage what little of the prose-writer I have within me, whatever of the speakings of the heart I still possess. It may not sell, people may not “like” it, but amazingly, gloriously, beautifully, I already feel better!
If I say “I love you” with ease, I probably don’t mean it that way.
That Way being: I’m in love with you, I can’t breathe without thinking of you first, my heart sparkles at your touch, I imagine a future with you, I’m utterly vulnerable to you, and you have all the power.
Today was a reasonably good day. I did not falter to think of the future, I didn’t doubt if my little successes count, and I did not stop to think if what I am and what I do is of any use whatsoever to the world.
How little we think to be grateful for days of contentment.