The Magical World of Writing

This lucid dream, one which keeps on getting higher every second we try to act or do something that will elate our emotions—rubbers lined up in the heavens to protect us from everything that we should never be, but are glaringly trapped into, forsaken in our own lands, made to live with nothing but thin coats of fakery that so prudently overwhelms.

Ever thought of that silent kid in the class, one who thinks for himself, and at times, comes up with something so brilliant that it snatches the attention of even the brightest of the child? This mind, one which has evolved so much, that if compounded with the brightness of the biggest stars in the milky way, still to the amuse, it stands out.

And with it, the chaos that so beautifully prevails—knitting every inch of our lives that at times, we forget that we even exist. But there is something unique, construed with an ingenious magnet, that our minds are able to pour even at times when nothing is making any sense.

Writing, either it be scribbles or a carefully planned artifact, is something that is a gift, a therapy and a mover of previously unaltered emotions that seizes us in every word that is, the prints of black and white, casual or catastrophic to some readers or just mundane to the everyday life of the writer.

There is some much splendor in writing, that nothing would make sense—the stealers of happiness, charades of flowers and ashes of lavender, everything that is, our words that would last a millennium.

But what is it about writing that has many people searching for a new meaning, one which removes stagnation and gets us closer to the edge of the parameters of this life. To be able to express, unmoved by societal stigma, magical manifestation of our own selves into uncompromising pages.

Everyone is waiting with daggers, for us not to speak, and we are good conformists in that manner, but writing gives us a different dimension as to how one is able to create something new.

The works of Sylvia Plath, Virginia Wolfe and Ernest Hemmingway are extraordinarily crafted, but what was there that formed, the driver of thoughts that was loved by millions around the globe. The beautiful chaos of mental illness, and with it, the need to make something out of this life when there is no one to even listen. So one picks up a pen or sits close to a typewriter and pours until the ink runs dry and the rivers get flooded with tears of red.

One simply cannot start writing if the environment does not permit. For some, this may mean sitting under a favorite tree, while to the next—alone, separated and in solitude with the surrounding and with one-self. It’s like there are no alternatives, but one’s own company that becomes a determinant factor while writing.

Therefore, another benefit is that it stays no matter what, and with it, everyday emotions that are able to find its way out of the mind. Sometimes, and for things to make sense to the ordinary reader, a lot has to be interpreted and examined ,but what’s more challenging is that no two writers would mean the same even if the same words have been phrased in a sentence. It’s the beauty in enigma that enlightens, whirls us into the ever changing landscape of life, to feel what ought not to be felt and to dance when the reindeers have stopped.

At the epicenter of everything, the art that so exquisitely attracts, and revolutionizes the idea of writing as new pieces of knowledge surface. It’s the most compulsive gift to us, and addicts know the release of happy chemicals one experiences with time spent on writing. It leads to neuro-plasticity, thus a new person would be born each day, despite the same mind that continues to condemn.

-Yogesh Chandra