It wasn’t the Wattpad account I made to write and then settled upon writing a one direction fan fiction (sigh yes those were some dark times) and neither was it the WordPress blog I made on Zinara’s insistence but it was a rampage of anger I had right now that made me realize- sometimes I forget I write for myself.
I am sorry God for not doing justice to this talent but I am sorry Farees that I ruined the very thing you found sanctuary in. The very thing that allows you to be you. It’s not something you do to impress people. It’s not something you do to make you stand out- and I forgot that. I forgot that your feelings are more important than the like on your blog. I forgot that your peace is why you write. You write so that the words can give you all the love and in the right way the way your contemporary life has not been able to give. You write so you can whisper confessions about sultry thoughts that dance in your mind before you go to bed. You write because something in you tells you to pour your heart out in ink and words and poetry, because all those report cards hidden away in the debris of your past remind you that you have never been good enough. That you are par. That you are average. You write because you do not need to be good enough here, or good or par or anything that is a comparison.
You write because ,an undefined misunderstood heart broken, it sits so adamantly in your heart. A mixture of certain memories and nostalgia and feelings that need to be untangled from the mesh of your thoughts. You write to separate the feelings and the ideas the heartbreaks from the love. Farees, I am so sorry for forcing you to left click on essays you type in hope for synonyms to replace the words your heart thought of. I’m sorry Farees for telling you you are not good enough in the only thing you do where it does not matter how good you are. I am sorry that I became so blinded by the competitive fire that runs in your heart, the one you use to study subjects that fill your heart with a nagging incompetence- you are never good enough, that I forgot it isn’t about the competition. I am sorry you have to feel this way now. Maybe your depression isn’t depressing enough. Your ideas not ideological enough. Your sadness not sad enough. I am sorry I forced you to read things you couldn’t relate to because everyone was doing it. I am sorry I made you write that fan fiction so that the amount of votes could tell you your worth. I am sorry that I made you think these likes define you. That everything you write needs to make people feel something, that you need to approach people. I am sorry I made you belief that the purpose of your writing is so that “there should be some quality work addressing the more wider population just in case any common person would like to read it, I mean less mysterious, maybe a little bit more preachy.”
I am sorry. I am sorry I forgot that you write because there is a fire in your soul and no other thing gives you the redemption you seek. You write for yourself. I am sorry I forgot that rage that gathers in you that makes you forget your name or friends or feelings or sympathy, that rage that causes you to spew bitter words of truth and arrogance, that rage that keeps you arguing with yourself at 3 am.You haven’t lost your ability to write. You don’t have writer’s block- you have forgotten. You have forgotten those days in Biology when that merciless droning voice at 8 am in the morning reminded you that there are libraries with untouched and ordered books waiting to be read, that there is a pen somewhere in the rubbish of your dreams calling you to escape, calling you to forget because home is not home without your journal. I am sorry that I let my materialism bleach your tears to make them more presentable. I am sorry I let society convince you of what is sick and wrong and what is just a feeling that comes when he pops into your head. What is just a caress of daydreams and what is an embarrassment. Farees, you are not a good writer- because that is not what you want to be.
Maybe you started writing because it was the only thing that made you stand out. It was the only thing that made the whole class turn when your teacher told you your poem was selected for that book you never got to hold. Maybe it was that smile on your grand father’s face, that look of pride when you were seven, the look no one has ever given you. That’s okay. Because you are human and you will need someone to tell you they are proud of how you can beautify the bitterness in your soul. It is OK. You were ten and you loved it and you would love it now.. Because you kept on writing after no one was proud of the fact you wrote, after everyone told you to stop, after your father took your books away , after your friend told you poetry causes depression, because you continued even after you knew that this is just a shout in the void and something people will just pass by and forget but you still wrote. You wrote on the corners of your chemistry register because benzene was fun to draw but doodling words was better. Because you wrote in physics when everything inspired your brain and made you feel like a speck but in a good way. You wrote and you continued to write. Your purpose was never to impress people, to make them feel something, to make them feel what you feel. it was just a hope. A hope that maybe someone will understand. But how can they how can they when you insist to make everything less mysterious and uncanny and less wild. Words are lions and cages are not enough for them they will pounce and they will roar Farees you let them roar.
So don’t. You are eccentric. You are beautiful and your words don’t make sense because your feelings are haphazard. Your essays aren’t always deep or philosophical because sometimes your mind is a four year old kid fascinated by kaleidoscopes and baby TV and innocence. Remember that you write because you can accept your insanity and you find her laughter to be beautiful and heart warming with a tinge of bitterness you accept because it is so breath taking. You write because you want to tell the world that you are there all 5 ft 2 inches and a billion miles of infinity of you. And you don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks. I am sorry I made you forget that.
You tiny beautiful piece of art. You product of tears and hard work and blood and strangeness. You impulsive,angry, bitchy and narcissistic excuse for a human being. You blunt, tired and hurt human. You write because you love to write. Because every word is an epiphany that brings you closer to God and that reflection in the mirror closer to you. You open up to the only thing you trust yourself. I am sorry that I am that part of yourself that ruins this. I am sorry that I am the ceaseless voice in your mind that tells you to forget everything for a mere approval because I believe that it is the only thing you can do. I am so sorry I forget that epiphanies are revelations from God and changing them is a sin no matter how many wars, or Taliban, or hate it’s misinterpretation creates. Because you are the writer whereas the reader is his own mind.
And I really don’t care what he has to say.
Exactly Farees. Exactly. He is as irrelevant as you are to everyone else when you talk about things close to you ,as irrelevant as society is to truth,as happiness is to beauty, as love is to rules. You write for you. You have a blog because maybe someone agrees. If so let’s have a cup of chai or coffee or alcohol. Let’s have anger and distress and depression. If so let’s be ourselves, please no editors cuts, no slashes, no word limits just us. If so, let’s be the broken ones together. And of course if no one understands that’s OK they were never supposed to. You always have your insanity. You always have me.
But you will meet someone. Someone like Zinners but just in case you don’t- you have me.
The many infinities in you.
PS: Art is for the broken ones. People who wear something on their sleeves but it’s not their heart because they are afraid of their hearts. Art is for that ballerina who likes to break dance to the soft sound of velvet. Art is for the shadow of yourself in dark alleys. Your reflection at the end of an empty bottle of wine. Your soft smile as you write this. Art is for mystery. Art is for interpretation. Just like you are. You certainly weren;t meant to impress people- so shut the actual fuck up.