Late night fantasies. Those are always the best. Why is my mind so full of clarity? Or is it hazy and these thoughts are sleep-deprived delusions? It’s a trail of thoughts that run so far and so clear. No distractions. When the world around me sleeps, my brain urges me to write. The electronics beside me try to tempt me, but you always win. How can I make sure you win every day? Not just when the clarity of creativity strikes? Carry you with me? Not let my mind drift? I must. I must. I must. I will.
I find myself jealous of musicians and singers who perform for audiences. Those who from a distance don’t seem so filled with solitude. The solitude of a writer. I live in inside my head. It’s a place of sheer loneliness. All of these thoughts that are in my head yet are never shared in sounds. Instead, they are shared with an inanimate object. If I didn’t where would the writing come from?
It’s a craft I love so deeply, yet hurt from all at once. I find myself lost in thought even with others around. How to frame a sentence? What would I write on any given topic? Or how would I edit a piece of writing? There is never a moment I’m not thinking of words. There are those who will not understand this. This only builds on that solitude. How can you do this for pleasure? Isn’t it work?
It’s gut wrenching. Sometimes it’s as if my soul is the one being leaked onto the pages, not ink. But therein lies the beauty of it all. Whether people understand or not – it’s still there. That need is still there, and I thank God that it is. In all it’s solitude. I love it in every way possible, and I don’t want to think about life otherwise.
Sometimes I just have a desire to write. To see where my thoughts and pen take me. Often it’s to my deepest secrets – the ones I don’t share with anyone. The ones I am afraid to admit to myself, and there is a beauty there that is unmatched.
My cousin once asked incredulously, “wow, so you really love writing that much?” when I told her I write regularly for myself. I do. I love writing; but it’s also that I often feel a need to do so. I writer will often tell you that. I believe that writers are the most mis-understood bunch. She couldn’t fathom that I enjoyed it so much that I would take my unpaid time out to do this for fun. Yet, that’s just what it is for me.
At times it’s fun. Sometimes it’s cathartic. Others it’s for a purpose, and sometimes it’s just like this – just a need to put pen to paper and release the thoughts. Perhaps that is what it is the most – a release. A release of all that’s inside that doesn’t get uttered into the air and landed upon ears.
It’s where I feel most comfortable. As a child and pre-teen, I would write letters to my parents when I had a problem, because writing it down felt more natural than saying it out loud. Time and age has made me comfortable with the saying it out loud aspect, but my inner most thoughts are still reserved for this medium.
Writing about a love of writing may seems cliched, but everything I’ve said is quite true to me. No matter what other aspect in my life I feel inadequate in, I know I can always come home to where I feel the most comfortable. Home is my pen, paper, and thoughts.