One glimpse at the overwhelming finitude that is day-to-day life is more than enough for a never-ending stream of writing. That, in part, seems to lead to a hesitation to write—as an idea, there seems to be just so much to write about and starting is, therefore, an impossible venture; do I begin chronologically or ought I first figure out the best way to organise these endless thoughts into priorities and interconnections? Often this approach seems not only necessary but is the sole way to go about any attempt to write. That is, until one actually does begin to write.
Writing, perhaps, at its core feels indulgent. I love to read a beautifully crafted ramble—just a string of words saying so many nothings, like mental music but of a different kind from an ear-worm. I love it when I glaze over each word as they flow to the next and then reach the point at which no more words are being said and I have, in reading nothing, understood everything. So it is with writing: when I read those texts, I wish to write similarly. Indeed the process of writing feels that way. There are so many thoughts here and there that comes out of nowhere, gracefully making their way into an essay—an attempt of sort. I would not know what I had written until I read the finished piece waiting at the end of some days later and see first-hand how I have written so much and none at all; I mean this in the way that makes me happiest.
Why is it then that when it is time to write, it feels easier to do something else? Easier may not actually be the right word. Convenient? Straightforward? Doing something without having to put in any other effort besides the doing, even if the doing itself is not what one wants to be done. The idea of writing on the other hand is encumbered with so many “necessaries”—the whole rundown of what happened from one point in time to another, that lovely idea from earlier, the other interesting point from a day ago, this project, that story, etc. I wonder then if those thoughts that seemed like serendipitous insight earlier are truly necessary for writing; it seems as though they have become excuses not to write. Such a turn of events not being of their fault as thoughts (surely they remain insightful), however.
I wonder then if it is possible for things to have happened and be just that. Where did the compulsion to keep everything well-documented and safely kept as memory come from? I have had the habit of writing journals since I could write—and though I have put to ink so many happenings, I remember so few of them. They are all kept so safely in old notebooks located in unknowns. Their mere inaccessibility renders them nonexistent. If one cannot at a given moment recall a particular thing or thought, do they truly know that thing or thought? Familiarity may make knowledge easier sometimes, but it is not what makes it possible.
Actually, the breakthrough for all these thoughts came as a proposal that led to the start of this exercise. It is a question that shone, a sliver of hope if one wills: can the one who wants to write simply write? No reason, no purpose, no method. The only thing that is needed is faith, which can, in this case, be described as the knowing that if one feels called to write that there is already such a reason and purpose and method for doing so that come with the calling itself. One is not called to figure out these things that are probably beyond what is human (which one is). The very human endeavour of “writing”, “to write”—that is all that one needs to do.
I thought about that insight I had earlier. It came with a whole outline—several points that support well-constructed arguments—yet I thought also about how it is nowhere at the moment of thinking. I ‘wanted’ to write it still, for I can remember all these ideas clearly, but if only for the seeming value of doing so: that to write means to put something of value, that insights are ‘good’, that it would be such a waste to proceed with something that works anyway—a lot of reasons, purposes, methods. I could do it, I could definitely discipline myself. There might even be a way for me to do so without feeling resentful about writing, as in if I were to have such an approach, I might well be able to write more often and better.
What was I to get in the path of uncertainty, that is in ‘just writing’? I think maybe that is one of the ‘points’ if there were even to be any: in doing this sort of writing, I am reminded that there need not be anything to get. Sure, the seemingly good things would remain good and so would the vanity that permeates all of these. Yet one cannot deny the bliss that is inevitable. Right now, I write. Just that, simply writing. Even when no words seem to come up, my hands remain on the keyboard and everything feels right, because truly they all are. Everything is perfect because how else should things be? Words come as they ought to and I feel as though my breathing is just the same.
Here there is neither tiredness nor energy, motivation or apathy, good or bad. It is a strange way of describing an experience of limitless, of the Infinite: being still, in a partial cross-legged seating position, hands on cold keys, eyes glossing over a dimly lit room, familiar melody gently dancing around the room, words coming and going, past and future all dwelling in the only Now and these three are huddled somewhere cosy. Dare I say this is love? Love, how? Love of what exactly? Just love. Whether words are written or not.