Before reading, please read these words at least twice:
This post is from the deepest depths of my heart, and I probably will never write something again so sincerely and wholeheartedly.
Now go back and read it again if you may.
My main problem lies in those two words: I do not have writers block. I don't. I have something else, not sure better or worse, I just know this thing hurts.
In the previous post, you already read that I have been writing since I was 14, but..never have I thought nor ever felt this way before, never have I felt that words hurt, with the literal meaning of hurt. My words, I hate to think I could write them again, I hate to write them even in the first place - it's a feeling of wanting to suppress everything inside, let it die and rot inside of me, maybe right then my soul will take that battle for me, not my pen; my poor pen and my precious feelings..I wanted to keep them. I didn't want to let so many insecurities outside, they were just too many, and yes, I prefer to call them insecurities rather than any other word I refuse to remember.
When it first happened, that thing, that terrible thing that put all my ease on fire and let me burn with my bruised emotions -- no, I'm not that emotional if you ask me, I just care about my emotions just as much as I care about anything else within me. Back then, my friend
Ibhog told me to pray excessively, and that's what I did. I felt like I couldn't do anything more than praying sincerely to the only One who can save me from all of this. I pleaded in every single prayer, I couldn't be more persistent and hopeful that Allah will save me somehow. What on earth was happening? That, I don't know, or it's why I came here in the first place.
About a month and half ago I read a
novel I think I will never forget in my entire life. It was about books and words, about writing. The narrator was death, the protagonist was a girl who started writing just a little younger than my young age when I did. I don't know how to explain this, but this novel made me feel like I can't write anymore, as if death will visit me soon, as if I'll just write my last piece of writing on this earth and it will be so influential that the next motivating thing for people to live life truly, will be my death. This novel has cast a heavy black shadow on me. Words, how useless they are, in a world where hunger, politics, corruption, colonization, war and so and so on, acts of severe hostility are everywhere.
I don't know, ever since I felt this way, the day I wrote this quote and then made it a status on facebook, that said:
"I want to die free. I want to die free. Even if imprisoned or enslaved or tortured, I want to die knowing that my thoughts are unchangeable! I want to die free, even if from the outside i'm oppressed and full of shakles and handcuffed. Inside, I'm a slave to none, only an obedient to God..."
This quote is one of the quotes I expressed sincerely and brutally honestly, and I still want to die free. I think about being imprisoned or enslaved way too much, and how would I react upon this, and then I go like "Death, martyrdom, the purpose of life, heaven, hell" and a series of dark yet real thoughts pours itself, with the most burdensome one "in an infinite universe, what am I? Truly? a speck of dust, why is it that we think too much of ourselves?" and in the end I just want...The later life, not this.
But then again come the words, how easy they are, how easy they have always been. This past week, I couldn't think of anything but this, and my words, where will they take me? What about the next word I'm going to say, now, will it benefit, or harm? I'm a writer, I'm a very troubled writer, and I'm a tired thinker. I sometimes wish I would really just give up the process of writing because lately, it causes me so much pain, why? Purposes haunt me. I don't want to be just a writer, I want to be a writer who makes people do. I'm a selfish writer, so please don't read my words in vain, otherwise, please just don't waste your time on my blog.
Yet, I remain with too many written paragraphs, and not a single emotion expressed rightly.
Again, words..
