Insecurity

I seemed to have had it lingering above me like a foreboding shadow; somewhere hovering in the corners. It’s not that easy, it’s not as easy as it looks. Even for those who were pulled into it; somewhere between being unconscious of it and being all too aware too suddenly. Delving into a self-destructive emotion as this is consuming, I would think. A part of you is eaten up, effected.

What makes a good writer? Hmm, I am not too sure yet. Writing gives those few skirmishes of me, left undone and exhumed by different sources a small place to rest. I don’t really know where I began, I’m sure I had a beginning somewhere. Maybe when I was 13, 14 and I wanted to write poems. Maybe at 11, 12 when Mum gave me “Heidi”, and “Little Women”. Maybe the shelves of books at home with so many different stories. Or the journals Mum gave us to write in everyday. But, what makes a good writer? Is it a fine balance between being the observer or the ‘observed’? The depths that comes from those. Someone once said, “You do not know life unless you have lived it yourself.” And perhaps it makes sense too. Sometimes when parts of my life have felt deeper-cut than just living through it, the strain of that cut stayed a little longer, a little deeper and my insights sharper, pain-induced or even darker. Perhaps that’s what makes good writing?

For our lives are not ordinary. They lie in deep emotions, cutting, they are extracted from the ordinary by definition, and by Fate. For another existence would not be real, even a half-peripheral one. A Real writer is never rich, there is a gloom around him and perhaps he’s left to roam the dark corners of empty streets.

Depression, depression. I’m hoping to find something profound out of it, else it might have been a waste of my time altogether. Waste of a life left hanging thinking there was something deeper, darker behind the sun.

If one dwells too long, maybe he or she would be lost. Lost to themselves and to those around them. I have felt the push, desolation and a deep undermining of myself even. It is destructive and yet it is powerful enough to bring Insight into our solitary existences, monotonous, dead and unnerving lives. If there is a line, maybe its very thin.

Yet that line itself is what brings out Exceptionality.