Why I Write? — ‘The Question’

Why I Write? — ‘The Question’Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier — Young Man Writing

At some point in our lives, we wonder why we are doing what we are doing. Why we are spending our time, energy, intellect, and most of all a lifetime pursuing something that might or might not have a significance in the real world.

To me it has to do with writing, if there’s one thing that I do other than reading, it is writing. Not just here, and not just random blog articles, I write, and I write in order to keep myself alive as much as to keep the spark of hope alight. I write poems, stories, and of course novels. At this point of my life, the only works of mine that is available to the world is my poetry. And I promise there’s a lot more coming.

Why I Write? is the kind of question that is explored and answered by many authors across generations, this very title is in a way inspired from George Orwell’s essay in which he explores what the reasons might be for someone to pursue writing. But here, my take on this question is going to be different, purely personal, and in a way — introspective. I am answering this question for myself as much as I am trying to make a statement for the future readers of my works.

And I expect to answer the same question once again sometime in the future when, if at all by some absurd chance, the world recognizes my writings and calls them worthy. That post will be titled — “Why I Write — ‘The Answer’”.

So, why do I write?

I write to tell the tales that keep my heart captivated, to bring into life the world that is concealed within me, and to show the unseen aspects of life. It is my philosophy that the beauty of true art is hidden within the unexplored aspects of life which are often ignored or walked past by the extremely ‘busy’ world that is too conformed by modernity to live a complete life.

I write because writing keeps me alive, gives me hope and makes me realize that there is something beyond normality in my life. The complexity of life can be made simple and the simplicity of living can be made complex, that’s what makes the art of writing different and unique.

I write so that I don’t tire myself from this life, I write in order to keep myself entertained and to entertain those who are willing to read my works. What better bliss can there be than living a life that serves my fellow readers!

I write to satisfy myself, to not keep my ideas and ideologies caged within the confines of my mind and heart.

During one of the summers in my life, as I was travelling from some place to another I came across an old homeless man sleeping in the corridor of a closed shop. His feet were cracked and covered with blisters. His hair and beard was overgrown and dusty. The rising and falling of his rid cage can be clearly seen as his malnourished and starved body could not hide his bones under the bulk of skin.

Despite all this, for some odd reason and to add some oddity to the scene he was wearing a silver watch, I couldn’t see much of it, but the metal strap was shining and the glass was broken. Was it working? I couldn’t make sure. But the simplicity of that scene wasn’t just left at that. For hours I kept thinking about the absurdity of human existence, the old man’s existence and the watch which played an out of place role in this complete scenario.

A few months later, I saw another man, quite young but deformed to an inhumane level, with fingers and wrists twisted and curved, one couldn’t help but feel either sorry or disgusted by such an existence. But to add to the absurdity of his obscure beauty, he was wearing over 9 different watches and quite a few rings. When I first saw him for the last time, he was carrying two heavy bags, all dirty on the outside, his clothes were tattered and his soul seemed fed up and tried, but his face and eyes said something else, what was that thing?

I write in an attempt to capture both the beauty and terror of life and the world itself. But what I aspire to write is something that is too far away from my reach as of now, and that gives me a reason to keep trying.

Yet, when I do get the chance to show the world my writings, to project my ideas through words to crowds of readers across the globe, perhaps then, my heart will know that it has told its story, has expressed its emotions, and is being immortalized for generations to come.

But will I ever master the art? Will there ever be a soul that will appreciate my writings? Can I make the difference I hope to make in the lives of those who read my works? I shall leave these questions in the hands of time, for time will answer all the questions, and those it doesn’t answer will eventually fade into oblivion.

~ C. Madan

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