fearless flight

 

These days, I wake up and feel another part of myself rotting. I spend hours staring at the ceiling that I swear is boiling over due to the calamity that had befallen my room. Those who walk into my space give nervous glances; to the kettle positioned in such a way that it must be a fire hazard, the clothes piling up on the chair, the disaster of the floor that even I cannot navigate. What I cling onto is the pile of dust-coated books on my desk, a guitar I play the same things over and over again on, a wall of ‘disturbing’ art covering up a brutally honest letter – proof that there is art left in me, however desiccated it may be.

          Dearest reader, let me preface this by dropping all pretence of being a trustworthy writer – much less a good one. I revived this blog for spite and spite alone, to prove the incredibly flimsy point that the purpose is simply to write for myself, if none else. To keep going even if I must drag myself through it – for I do not think what I write today will be met with regret tomorrow.

          Do you know the rules to your grief?

          There’s always been rules, and I’ve always hated them. Everything I have ever written has been heavily censored – firstly from my internal monologue, and secondly from the staggeringly complex list of requirements that are to be met for you can’t simply write, you have to be a specific type of person who doesn’t write about specific types of things. If you do not follow the rules you are dismissed. Just like that.

          And dismissal is the worst. The artist needs an audience, if I am met with an audience that does not care then why would I keep going?

Today I told my friend how I have been a bad creator of art because I’ve been a bad consumer of art. And I do not blame myself for this – I find it difficult to find hope in anything these days. You must forgive me if I found it difficult to pick up the pen as well, for when they asked me to choke on my words, I found the blood stuck in my throat far too much to do anything with other than to scream mindlessly into the void. The void’s been a great friend.

I’ve always been a very angry writer. Or artist, in general and that’s not surprising. It’s always easiest to draw inspiration from the emotion that comes strongest, and I have always been emotional. A crybaby of a child, if you will. It’s the coward’s way out – for you channel everything that is too much within you and pour it onto canvas or ink, and when people ask you what it’s about you look at them blankly because well, it’s about everything, isn’t it?

          But what do you make of yourself – of this overarching purpose, of these grandiose words you ascribe to yourself when the ceiling is boiling over, when the world around you burns and when God has long stopped answering, when you’re asked to be quiet, quiet, quiet – for if you tried speaking.

          Well, the threat ends there. It doesn’t need more words to explain itself. The threat is in silence.

          Resistance is in speaking regardless.

          Or resilience. Whatever you wish to call it. My dreams are smaller these days, and I hope that tomorrow does not hurt.