Dark Horse Arts and Sciences

Pain is inevitable for a writer. Sometimes, it’s too ineffable to put it into words, but it is what it is. Were it not for the pain, I wouldn’t have been a writer. Pain ignites in me a plethora of scintillating, blistering emotions, enough to set the typewriter on fire, with my fingers moving faster than the turbulence of my emotions. Writing is not for the ones born in an air-conditioned, four storey building with workers licking their feet and wiping their shit. It’s not for those who haven’t had anything but food and earthly pleasures provided to them since the day they started sucking their mother’s breasts, instead it’s for those who have fought through insurmountable periods of substantial, unavoidable suffering and agony. 

Your hands won’t move to write unless that terrible memory of almost dying of hunger and thirst dances before your eyes. You will be clueless about what to write unless that lingering memory of the deceased you once dearly loved resonates within your disturbed mind in the middle of the night. You, the writer, are nothing but an accumulation of your continuous internal struggle throughout your meaningless existence, committing one grave blunder after another, failing everyday, just sitting in front of your computer, unable to express yourself correctly to the whole world. 

But whatever it is, you’re eventually going to write it down and publish, not for anyone else, but for you and you alone. In your own inner-convoluted universe, you are all there it is. Nobody is there but you. You see yourself in the mirror and realize what has become of you, what writing has done to you. But isn’t it what you always wanted, to indulge in your passion so much that you forget the circumstances of your own vicinity? Isn’t it what you wanted, to distance yourself so much from the world that one day you will be lost in another parallel world of your own, provided you are the creator and creature of it, forever?