Monday, July 9, 2018

Writing is the Solution (Answer).

Just like the many instances which result in intermittent inconsistent posts on this blog, my motivation is a need to write and in the not-so-expressive parlance, blow off some steam. Even the grammar of this post seems to be on a slow start, but why care when the need is to just write rather than please the uncaring non-existent reader?
But what's wrong? 
Maybe the fact that I should be studying rather than contemplate writing. And write what? Nothing of great value. I don't want to write about the realities of my life right now. This writing should be about abstract concepts - the eyes of a girl, the feelings a sullen man, the events of an imaginary instance. But is this the extent of my evolution as a person? The feelings of years ago are the same except for their sharp bluntness. A decade since my supposed emergence into awareness of life's affairs seems to have not changed anything really. I'm still me, but with wider barriers and increased alert to the consequences of every step, every word, every feeling, every letter. There is a price for every action. And maybe that's why adults are stymied and held back. Life, as seemingly beautiful as it seems, is the accumulation of overlapping layers and folds, deafening our actual instincts and uniforming our behavior with a few differences for the fun of it; just because life would be really boring without those differences. But even those differences are seemingly controlled and kept within a boundary. Anything beyond the boundary is genuine taboo, rejected by the living and the dead. Aren't we the sum of historic orders and commands sent upon us 3000, 2000, 1400 years? The stagnancy of constitutions and charters is by design. This is a small revolution. I'm revolting against the idea of forming thoughts, preparing outlines and writing intelligible concepts. The freedom of arbitrary sentences onto a white electronic expanse is liberating in some way. There is nothing to be gained by reading this, but there is a lot by writing it, I think. At least I'm feeling a bit better but the thing that pushed me into writing this will sure and soon enough be rearing its mystical face as soon as I'm done. It's like the satisfaction one received by smoking a cigarette; you're pushed into doing it and you're comfortable as you're smoking, but what's there to be gained? Because as soon as you're done you'll know that the comfort will be replaced by normalcy and following that a small itch will evolve into another push towards another cigarette. The difference, I guess, is the lack of awareness that accompanies the smoking of a cigarette. It's simple: light the lighter, bring the edge of the cigarette into the flame and drag, and do so until it's done. An absolute beginning followed by an inevitable end. Always the same all the time. At least this, I guess, provides something more than the absolute mechanism that a cigarette operates in. Maybe a sentence of brilliance emerges, and maybe the satisfaction of writing is not really fulfilled, and maybe once the urge to write again arrives, the urge turns into something other than writing, because this doesn't really help. Yes, this is where the evolution of my character got me; towards excruciating randomness. At least, though, none of my words are underlined with a squiggly red line.
A new paragraph. This feels good. I'll regret the minutes I took to write this, but it feels good. Just like the drag of a cigarette. But this exposes something even more sinister than I assumed as I began writing. The lack of substance is dumbfounding. Did I really live my life to not be able to write anything of substance on a white electronic expanse when I really have the freedom to do so? Pfsht! Where are the abstract feelings of a sullen man? It's scary because even though I don't fear the judgment of a reader on this, I fear what others think of those abstract writings, and this is where my reluctance stems from. But maybe it's also because I really lack the vigor I once had for such writings. I am devoid of the circumstances that cause such thoughts to form. Again, I return to the effect of life on one's life! I'm not divulging something new; it's why children are creative, and most adults are not.
Now I know why I write sometimes. It's because I have something important to do and I really do not want to do it. I really don't! I'm also going to be defeated by my arrogance. Is it sad that after two years of not posting anything on this blog, I write this piece of utter B.S.?
A little bit of substance and context: I'm returning home soon to begin a life of actual adulthood. I fear my failure and maybe that's why I cling to what was before my looming adulthood. I believe in a hashtag that once trended: الكتابة هي الحل - writing is the solution (answer). Maybe it is, maybe it's not. 

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