I’ve always written better than I speak. I am particular with many things and my language is one of those things. It must be right. It must communicate my thoughts, feelings, knowledge and reasoning as succinctly as possible. And if it doesn’t, I am frustrated.
Writing is a stronger vehicle for such things. It takes time to perfect but there is much more time allowed; time for patience and a more accurate way to articulate my words.
I feel strong when I write. My own words carry me to enlightening depths where I unearth things about myself and the world, which otherwise would’ve remained ungrasped.
It may seem this is more to do with allowing oneself time to consider the situations of one’s life and less to do with noting it down in words. However, when I think like this I know that in time, the full meaning of these epiphanies will become fragmented, lost, ephemeral. They will never be as complete as they were when I first discovered them.
If I have a pen in my hand, mind and body work as one along with the sticky ink that glues my thoughts to paper. Through a carefully constructed system of letters making words I find a piece of the spirit me and bring her onto the page. I want to write her down for future reference but the thing is, she keeps changing. It’s a good thing; it means growth. It means I refuse to stay stagnate but it also means I am never completely definable to myself. I think that’s probably a good thing as well for if I am not a mystery to myself, what on earth would I have to occupy myself as internal dialogue? If I knew all the answers to myself, I think I’d grow intensely bored because nothing I’d ever do would seem spontaneous or unpredictable. I wouldn’t have that wonderful feeling of being on the cusp of self-discovery anymore and without that, I think I’d be entirely unfulfilled.
And so, I hope that I spend my whole life never fully knowing myself and yet desperately trying to in the same instant. As I write myself out, I understand past-me better and, of course, I can’t know who future-me is at all until she’s present. Right now –and perhaps forever– present-me seems unsure. She isn’t whole. She doesn’t know how to be. She seeks comforts to fill the gap which she knows are not perennial, nor reliable.
I hope that changes. With all my heart, I try to make it change but I need to work out why it’s so in the first place. Maybe properly recognising myself as an artist for the first time in my life will help. And maybe sharing my art with the world will help to inspire me and inspire others.
We can only hope.