I’ve often been asked how and when I get the time to read and write, with all the work that goes into Life. The frequency of these questions in the past couple of days have led to me thinking about WHY it is that I have this inherent need to write. Is it just something I do to pass the time, because come to think of it I more often have no time available to just pass. Those precious minutes when my son sleeps or is playing by self are spent with me lost in other worlds. Why is it that I find myself feeding words into my mind, letting my imagination run wild and often enough penning down absurdities or observations that are read mostly by no one but me.
Maybe it stems from the desire in me to try to figure out how minds work and to what extent others’ imagination can let lose. To what heights and depths can the human soul reach. To what extent an author or I can beautify or capture a scene of emotion. The lavishness of descriptions is like a painting in which I can fill whatever colors I find in the palette of my mind. Yes, a cliche’ but I love that every book has a clearly defined hero, heroine, villain and a problem to which a solution is always found at the end. A concept which is truly alien in life.
Those nights when I used to stay awake all night trying to get my kid to sleep I had a book or iPhone or Kindle in hand in the middle of a book. Yeah, it wasn’t always a book but chatting and Facebook help wile away time only so much. A book somehow transported me in another world where I wasn’t feeling as miserable as I actually was.
Morbid though it may seem, maybe it also has something to do with me wanting to leave behind words of wisdom or otherwise for my son or children. For there to be some way for them to connect to me, no matter where I am. I read a novel once which said that the secret to living forever was telling stories, about ourselves, our present, our life. Maybe subconsciously that’s what I’m doing. Making sure I and the ones I love, live forever. In pages, across the internet, in pictures. And the books we read in common are a connection, like a thread held together by people far apart, in distance and in time.
I have a story to tell …
It’s a long one …
A life lived beyond this one …
Moments of love, anguish and betrayal …
Moments cherished, better forgotten or timeless example …
Minutes in time that form a portal …
From my life to the life you live …
From this day to the smile on your lips …
Words that envelop your being in a warm mist …
I have a story to tell …
It’s a long one …
Maybe you will find a sliver of yours hidden in this one …
So maybe the fact is that the how and when of writing and reading is basically because I can’t imagine Not being able to. Not being very religious myself, it occurred to me recently that people are so obsessed about their religion probably because it defines who they are and what they want to be. If that’s the case I guess for me reading and writing are such for they are who I am and they help me define who I want to be. What I want my children to be. So it’s basically, the why that defines the how and when.
Footnote : truth be told the encouragement of those who love me namely my brother, mom, Tracy and husband ( who provides me with ALL the tools I need ) is what helps me keep at what I love doing.
Very nice keep it up
Wonderfully composed. I had the similar questions for a long time. When you know that no one is reading the posts, why do I take the time to write it. Probably as you said, this serves as a personal space or diary of some sort.
Yes ..I definately found mine hidden in here…so brilliantly written, I feel the same…though there lies a minute difference…i write when my son is already consuming all my energy and concentration through his super super notorious activites…i really find it hard to write sometimes, but the pleasure i derive after reading my newly composed work is just out of this world…:)