There is always something to write about. There is always a thread to pull on, always a route to go down, and until death, there will always be something on our minds. The predicament of writing comes when we choose not to be true to ourselves. When we default from the integrity of what we think, what we feel, what we dwell upon, for that which we do not, we default from our creative ability. When we sacrifice the feelings which are, for the feelings which aren’t, and attempt to replace the reality of our emotions with the falsehood we wish could be true, we take upon ourselves only a contradiction.
The architect cannot model a home when focused on the blueprints of a car. The mind may become scared of its thoughts, but it cannot betray itself into unconsciousness of them.
Self- awareness does not flee on command.
This is why writing is hard. When you find shifting voices in your narratives, check your own. To write is simply to be conscious while recording. The fear of writing is either a fear of consciousness or a fear of letting others know you have one. The voice which betrays itself, which seeks to take something back, which walks around the direct road, is avoiding something it knows to be true.
Do you fight yourself? Do you hold back? Do you have something on the tip of your tongue, but walk away from it? Did you have something lingering in the back of your mind like a shadow in the room, and were you too afraid to turn to meet it?
There is but one voice to a monologue.
The writer who states contradictions, who twists his verbiage, who destroys his own integrity, says nothing. Those who do not write words, but instead a knot of statements, do not intend to communicate a thing. They only write such a paradoxical maze as to convey that they are too complex to be understood. Don’t doubt them, they are correct. They have woven themselves an unravelable net of complexities with the express purpose of avoiding understanding themselves. In their arrogance, they locked themselves in a million prisons and then told the world that it was too simple-minded to understand them.
True writing requires the highest bravery, the bravery of admitting the self. The bravery of witnessing one’s own existence, of witnessing one’s own mind, of knowing shame, digesting fear, radiating ambition, humming pride, basking in the heat of love, seething anger, manifesting hatred, and igniting joy. Writing is the admission that emotion is natural, that expression is the default, that thoughts exist not as random fictions, but as the vision of what reality can be.
Writing is not for the faint of heart, as writing is for those who do not dismiss the value of knowing they have one.
To write, not to simply put the words on paper, but to write, requires the repulsion of shame from those who would thrust it upon you. The emancipation of your voice from anything that would shackle it. To write is to be free and unashamed of stating it, to chance emotion, and inflict the world with your own soul.
The first men who would carve pictures on cave walls and later turn them into symbols, who started with art and invented calligraphy, who pushed letters into stone, did not write whilst pretending they did not exist. They did not write ashamed of their own being. They did not print into rocks or on walls or on parchment to be forgotten or overlooked. Every great writer who has recorded their thoughts did not choose to hide their inscriptions in the dark but to throw them into the light. Every great writer knows that that which is written impacts infinitely more than that which never was.
Be at peace with your own being, embrace your own existence, recognize the creations of your mind, and know that that which you feel is not underminable, not neglectable, but worthy of being known, written and heard.
You are worthy of your mind. You are free to be seen. You are justified in your emotions. Be without shame, and write knowing that you are.