It was another beautiful day.
I was safely hiding in my room, staring at the clock, watching the minutes of this long arduous day slowly tick away.
The wait was unbearable. I thought I’d write to make time pass a little faster. I didn’t really feel like writing – in fact, I didn’t feel like writing at all. It wasn’t the first time I felt this way – a type of disgust and pain you feel when you’re out doing a hard labor.
But why was I feeling that way? I didn’t know. How can something you’re so passionate about suddenly become such a nuisance? I still had no answer.
I found myself spending more time questioning my writing than actually doing the work.
I was annoyed. I got up and got my laptop. I thought writing would get my head off these things and eliminate those nasty feelings biting at my head.
I opened my word processor. It had an auto save feature that automatically kept trace of the previous work. It had saved the few lines I managed to grind out the last time out.
I erased them without even reading them. Nothing like starting fresh.
I closed my eyes – it always helped me see the world better, or the way I want to see it anyway – and surrendered to my imagination. A few thoughts came to mind; it was time to put them into sentences. I looked at my clock; a few minutes had passed. I was content with my progress. Today was proving to be a good day for writing.
I wrote my sentences. I read them. I tweaked them a bit. I read them again. I decided they were better off without the changes. I tweaked them again. They now read like the first time I wrote them. I saved.
I wanted to continue writing, but I started to feel uneasy. Those questions that came to me earlier, those insecurities surrounding my passion about writing and the satisfaction I get from it started to surface again. I felt bad about referring to my writing as a ‘hard labor’. Sure it proved to be a time-consuming and painful task at times, but it was never a labor.
Politics were a labor. College was a labor. Heck, even people were a labor sometimes. But writing? Writing wasn’t a labor. Writing was my drug. It took me places – and sometimes I even wish I could stay in these places forever.
I felt guilty. I had mistreated the one thing that was good to me. Writing was always there for me, to comfort me, to satisfy me – and sometimes, to save me.
I didn’t want to write anymore. I couldn’t write anymore.
I’d preferred lying in bad waiting for this day to end.
I closed my laptop. I looked outside my window again. It was still a damned beautiful day. I decided to take a quick warm shower.
When I turned on the hot water, I started feeling the warm droplets falling on my head and circulating in my hair. The droplets quickly became hotter and hotter, and I felt relaxed. I was finally going to get some peace of mind.
I let go in the shower, soaking both my body and mind and experiencing the sweetness of the water and the complete nothingness. My mind was empty, devoid of the earlier thoughts that had crippled my desire to spend the day tapping on my keyboard.
But then it hit me; the mindless downpour over my head, the free-flowing stream of hot droplets crashing down on my shoulders, the purity of the water coming down at me…
It reminded me of writing. Better still, it felt like writing to me. The free-flow of ideas, the tireless task of resurrecting your deepest thoughts and inscribing them on the white screen in front of you – it was the warm comforting feeling only writing could yield.
After my sudden revelation, I stormed out of the shower, got dressed, and opened my laptop again. It occurred to me that the emptiness I felt was actually a yearning – a call for something greater, like a greater Truth – a cry for unspoken wisdom that had gone missing from my day.
While my laptop flashed the loading screen, I looked at my clock again. It was still early, and I could only imagine how beautiful it must be outside. It was going to be a long day; that I was certain of.
I opened my word processor. It had saved the last few lines I wrote earlier. I erased them without even reading them, saved, and started typing again.