I sit here and begin to write, though I know absolutely nothing about what the content will end up being. What I feel, is a compulsive need to inscribe random thoughts on an empty sheet. Much likes a painter or sculptor; in the beginning whether canvas or marble, all is blank. But potentially they can unravel beautiful artifacts worth marvel and praise. Or possibly make us nostalgic to the canvas’ untainted blankness.
You ask what I will write. I guess about writing itself. Sometimes, I can feel confined in the jail of my soul, as if I’m shackled by the finitude of my galaxies and the limits of its potential. So, I turn to my pen; it is indifferent to the borders and restrictions I so gravely resent. No mountain is too tall and no valley too deep, oceans don’t threaten it in vastness nor does the heavens in height. Nothing stays beyond its reach, and no one can silence its voice. The quill can create symphonies of complicated notes and scale, although her composer is tone deaf. It can deliver meaningful sermons with beauty and eloquence albeit her author is mute. It might be envy I feel towards my pen. After all it has everything I lack. It explored beyond my capacity and traveled universes out of my range. Called out hypocrisy where it reign and condemned the self-righteous in power.
But, after long sessions of contemplation and thought I finally consoled myself that perhaps I do acquire superiority over the pen; and that is the choice to write and what to express. I have the freedom to abstain and be silent or to cry and shout. But nonetheless her message is eternal and still frees me from the bondage and conflict I’m damned to live in.
I know I will probably never create anything in comparison to the great works like the Mona Lisa, the David or Romeo and Juliet. For I don’t possess the great masters gifted genius, instead I inherited their curse. And that is the hunger, the passion, the obsession, the void that maybe cannot be filled, and the thirst that is never quenched. That’s my life.