Dear,
He looked at me with eyes that carried all the worry of the world and said, "Would you please pour your heart out for me?" He knew that once silence got to me, it seals my lips and makes me look burdened with all the thoughts of the world in my head.
We sat in our usual morning cafe, where we sipped coffee and talked about our day in the most detailed ways. My chair was a few inches higher than his, so that there would be no height differences between us. He was over 10 cm taller than myself. I leaned my head over his, in a desperate attempt to pour my thoughts into his mind without uttering a single word. He understood my gesture and smiled. I wasn't sure if that smile meant he read my mind or that he needed that lean himself. I smiled back and immediately turned my face away.
--
Getting back to writing is one of the hardest tasks I had to do. I knew I was running away from all my cliched thoughts and all of the redundancy I felt in my writings. I knew that to get back I needed to think of new and fresh ideas. I needed to remind myself that that's not why I came back. I didn't come back to write the same thoughts. Instead, I came back to set other thoughts free. I came back to imprison these feelings of numbness, or to fight them, or to win over them. I came back to write something new, to pour out my heart and mind, and to even lose myself in the process, in order to get it back. Writing has been and will always be one of the things that I feel pleasure in the pain they inflict upon me. It's both imprisoning and liberating to feel the words get out, and to feel them bottle up inside you the next moment. You get mixed feelings. You feel like a bipolar, a chronic mental state. Someone once said that reading is escape and the opposite of escape. I'd say that writing also is an escape and the opposite of it. I will never understand what writing does to me. And I will never give up the idea that once a writer will always stay a writer. It's only about how much and how hard we try.
Yours faithfully and sincetrely,
N.
He looked at me with eyes that carried all the worry of the world and said, "Would you please pour your heart out for me?" He knew that once silence got to me, it seals my lips and makes me look burdened with all the thoughts of the world in my head.
We sat in our usual morning cafe, where we sipped coffee and talked about our day in the most detailed ways. My chair was a few inches higher than his, so that there would be no height differences between us. He was over 10 cm taller than myself. I leaned my head over his, in a desperate attempt to pour my thoughts into his mind without uttering a single word. He understood my gesture and smiled. I wasn't sure if that smile meant he read my mind or that he needed that lean himself. I smiled back and immediately turned my face away.
--
Getting back to writing is one of the hardest tasks I had to do. I knew I was running away from all my cliched thoughts and all of the redundancy I felt in my writings. I knew that to get back I needed to think of new and fresh ideas. I needed to remind myself that that's not why I came back. I didn't come back to write the same thoughts. Instead, I came back to set other thoughts free. I came back to imprison these feelings of numbness, or to fight them, or to win over them. I came back to write something new, to pour out my heart and mind, and to even lose myself in the process, in order to get it back. Writing has been and will always be one of the things that I feel pleasure in the pain they inflict upon me. It's both imprisoning and liberating to feel the words get out, and to feel them bottle up inside you the next moment. You get mixed feelings. You feel like a bipolar, a chronic mental state. Someone once said that reading is escape and the opposite of escape. I'd say that writing also is an escape and the opposite of it. I will never understand what writing does to me. And I will never give up the idea that once a writer will always stay a writer. It's only about how much and how hard we try.
Yours faithfully and sincetrely,
N.
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