The other day when I was asked about my
inspiration, I thought for a while. Its funny how I couldn’t think of a person
or a thing that inspired me to pen down my thoughts, I gave the notion a lot of
time yet days passed and both the extremes of my brain couldn’t search for a pleasing
answer. I realize I’m an amateur, yet there had to be a trigger somewhere! After
all no one wakes up one morning and goes for divulging their most vulnerable side.
I struggled and skimmed through stuff
that I once wrote and read; a lot of things from a lot of different times.
Started off reading my own then went from published works of famous writers to
random articles by strangers and ended up with realization. There was a lot
that I read in the past few days, maybe more than I’ve ever done in my entire
life. I then sensed a weird pattern, I remember being asked of my ‘type’ and
never being able to answer it. It wasn’t because I wasn’t aware of what I like;
but it was exactly because I wasn’t aware of what I like! And how would I,
never really had a ‘type’. The thing I discovered was that I never looked for
the story or admiring characters, I didn’t care if the author was a best seller
or if the articles had good ratings, all I looked for was an enunciation of the
fear I had deep down in me. I found it intimidating yet fascinating at the same
time.
They say it’s hard to accept what you
fear the most, I believe otherwise. Anything is possible but to be in denial
about your fear isn’t! One way or the other, all of my imagination and
perspective desperately sided towards the dark despite how hard I tried to grip
the grey. The depression and anxiety took many forms and ways to come out, just
never ended until I admitted unlike life, it isn’t mortal.
I looked up and thought how life
inspired me to write, how I realized the worthlessness of materiality, it showed
me how words could add emotions and expressions, on which however many diverge.
It made sense yet didn’t satisfy me.
Life isn’t eloquent in nature and the
words can easily depict the emptiness that is otherwise neglected, it’s a form
of art that is often underestimated. Colors could cause mood swings but words
can be eternal and even fatal. How the same word can mean thousands of
different things and how those words fit in different contexts each time make a
complete different sentence, so perhaps it was the words that stimulated my
mind. Convincing enough but each time a part of me didn’t agree.
There are many reasons why I write.
Mostly to let out what’s inside, things that otherwise I couldn’t have said;
other days I’m sharing an observation or an experience. What isn’t palpable is
the concept of preserving parts of my life in places that aren’t bound to my
mortality.
With that I comprehended that my fear
of disappearance is my inspiration. It was the thought of dying that stimulated
me to write, the terror was what gave me the right perspective, the mortality
was what gave me the attitude. Death is the worst thing that could happen to a being;
however for me it turned out to be an inspiration.
And unless my fear is reality, my
inspiration remains! Treasuring little pieces of lives, caring about the smallest
of smiles, and not just a cliché, but truly and completely living in the
moment!
‘Life isn’t good, but life is always
fair’ and if there is a birth, there will be a death to balance the equation.
