I am not a writer
Never have been, and never will be
I merely arrange words
Categorize them unwillingly
It is all an illusion if you stare
Long enough for a meaning to arise
But it is never defined
Only simply surmised
I am not a writer
I am nothing but a man
A man with a broken heart
It takes spells of aching and gives you a sleepless night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoy life and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the matter with it, but man if you’re not a writer then what are we doing here:)
Thank you. I really appreciate your comment. And I must say that it is quite an accurate description “It takes spells of aching and gives you a sleepless night now and then”.
Sometimes I wonder (as I am at this very moment too, wondering) whether the ability to write is a gift, not just merely a necessity – a means of communication. Rather, self expression – a gift that allows us to exhale our woes, enabling the wounds to breathe. It’s as if the written piece is enshrouded in the pain we attempt to free ourselves from. Maybe it’s a means of partial dissipation of the aching that we feel – knowing that the burden weighing us down has been lifted somehow (if only a little).
I have pondered this very idea, many times before. Writing, like all forms of art, takes skill. And although you can teach art or music, you can’t do the same with writing. What is being taught is rigid, there’s no room for creative expression. The same goes for art (painting). You can teach a person about paint, and the history of artistic movements, but it is the talent that they are born with that is the creative force. Anyone can write. However, it is their ability to harness emotions which makes what they write enjoyable.
Exactly! And those (like you, masha’Allah) who are blessed with the gift of writing should share it – of course you are by way of blogging, but have you considered writing a book?