There are words locked within my mind, this I know.
It’s the same feeling when you know that someone is standing behind you, but just out of sight. They are untold stories, each with their own feelings and thoughts attached to them, which pass through my mind as a ghostly whisper before they are transformed by my fingers into the frank black letters of the written word.
To say I cannot write would be an understatement. To say I was a perfectionist would be a truth. To say I was a dreamer would be realistic.
Sometimes, I think that I think too much. You know the feeling, when thoughts and words tumble through my mind constantly like water throwing itself over a waterfall. The roar and the rush of these thoughts and feelings are too much for my mind to bear sometimes, it is as if I have to write this very second. I must find that right music and just let the words flow out through my fingers and onto the computer screen.
Those times of writing are precious. There is something truly magical about taking the back seat and just allowing my mind to spill all of its creativity onto the proverbial empty page. They are the times I can speak my truth, the deepest kind of truth, and wrap it up in enough metaphors and similes to camouflage my true thoughts to the world.
There is something powerful in writing, the power of creating something new from those feelings I cannot explain or quantify. There is something powerful with taking the pain and sadness that I have felt and creating from that place. There is something essentially human in distilling my worst moments and then using them to empathise with others.
Humanity, like everything in this universe, is complex. The human mind is not fully understood by even ourselves, the way we think and talk and communicate with one another is something that is just accepted as is. I feel that sometimes in this world no one takes a step back and admires how bloody brilliant the world truly is. Some might call it childish, but there is wonder threaded throughout this entire little planet, in this little corner of the universe.
Our corner. Humanity’s corner.
Where does writing come into this, I hear you ask?
Writing lets me try and distil that entire universe of ideas and possibilities into people. Into stories. Into things which others can relate to and find comfort in. Stories are one of the most powerful ways in which a person can question their own reality, and one of the ways someone can find strength again.
I write because I have to. I write because to not write means I cannot try to create something better that what I found before.
To write is to empathise with others.
To write is to be human.