I’m sitting in
front of my laptop, all set to start writing something that I don’t know. I
have the impulse to write, the motivation, but I lack the essence; I have a
feeling that I can’t clearly define. I can’t pin point its name but it’s there.
It’s like a feeling that is empty; an empty impulse! How can an impulse be
empty? Can a heartbeat be empty? Can a breath be empty? And if there are empty
breaths and empty heartbeats so can there be life? What kind of life can be
there if all the motivators of life are declining towards extinction! How can I
be all set and ready to take matters into my hands; write a story that has
never been written before, and still be all empty and null! Am I not supposed
to be a writer? Am I not supposed to question life; the universe, and its
exquisiteness? Am I not supposed to be an interpreter of motions and gestures?
How come I want to write something that I don’t know? It’s like once I come
near my keyboard I’ll figure out what needs to be written, what needs to be out
of my system, like a sin, and I’m chocking upon. It’s very easy to get a
feeling, an emotion that motivates you, but you can’t define it. But is it ever
easy to try explaining the thing that you cannot define? And if I cannot
explain it, does that make me a sloppy writer? And if it doesn’t make me a
sloppy writer, can a writer ever be motivated by an impulse that may come and
go? And if he can be motivated by such impulses, what would he do if these
impulses just stopped coming? Would he cease being a writer? Would he cease
seeking the perfection, on which he triumphs, which he brings to existence?
Would he stop seeking oneness through his claim of ownership over the produced
piece that he never thought he would tailor in such a perfection? Would he
really give up all that he was, is, and will just basing on an impulse that has
given him up? How could it be that easy? How could it be that depressing?
My impulse often
visit me when I’m angry or depressed, which is most of the time my mood. In
case I’m neither of the cases, which is probably when I’m sleeping, and not
even quite often then, I’m in the mood of “what if…?” Even when I’m not
writing, I’m always creating an alternative life that involves me and my
friends. I find uniqueness in it. I’m unique because there is something that is
only mine, not available to be shared with anyone but with my reflection in the
mirror. That reflection that reflects my monstrosity, mingled with such an
innocent face. That reflection that has a sight of the devil in it. You can
always see it through those eyes when they are determined on doing something to
take over something that she knows it is never hers to take. That light of
darkness that breaks through the dark sky of my head, bringing the darkness of
my abyss on top of the light that is trying to fight it back down to where it
came from but it can’t. It’s those moments of strength that feed my infuriation
and depression alike, allowing my impulse to dance on the grave of my words that
are becoming dead just seconds after their birth. They are born as I’m typing,
and die as I’m reading what I wrote. Their short interval of life is as long as
eternity; they will be born through every attempt of reading them and will die
with the last letter that is read but will be engraved in the unconscious of
the reader and will then find another death with his own.
The impulses are
always empty yet saturated by words that will never be known to the writer
until he tries to discover what he should be writing. He will never understand
his impulse until this impulse comes to life through his words then die through
his attempt of understanding it. It’s a life that comes and goes and gets born
then dies then gets born one more time then becomes immortal in the endless
time.
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