Imprint of writing

I am afraid of writing. Whenever I write, something comes out – something I have not been able to elaborate before, something that overwhelms all my senses. Writing paralyzes the daily mask; it is a revelation of not only one-self, but many-. Its endurance and amorphousness is what makes it out of the ordinary and out of an order; it has no beginning, middle or end as one thing leads to another, then back to the first and to the latter again. It is like swinging back and forth. You want to hold on to the second when the swing stops before taking you to the other direction, yet you let it take over you. When you finally get your bearings you have two choices: to stop the swing completely or to jump out, whilst letting it out or letting it rock some more in the back, of your mind.

I am afraid of writing. Whenever I write, I have an out-of-body experience. It is as if I am watching my fingers type, and it feels as they are a separate being. I cannot control what word is going to come, one after another. My head is in the clouds; so many thoughts come and go. If one could listen to the voice of my mind, one would hear the voice of chaos. One would hear the fight between antonyms: the sense in a form of nonsense, the subconscious in a conscious manner. The connection between my mind and my hands is the one that pulls the experience back into my body and allows me to relate to what I wrote, scaring me of what I am capable of or not.

I am afraid of writing. Whenever I write, I am tricked by the power of words. It is a game of hide and seek. The more I seek for a certain word, the more it hides the meaning. One hidden word is sought in different ways when read in different dimensions of reality at different slices of time. A word is like a platonic lover. You can feel it so well that you think you wrapped your arms around it, but the image is your imagination; you can never really get it. It is solely a sweet ploy played by your own mind. Thus; a word is bitterly mind-blowing and writing is committing a necessary crime at war time: a glorious mistake, an indecent virtue.

I am afraid of writing, but I still do as my inquisitiveness overrides my fright; my ingenuity, my habits; and my perseverance, my reluctance. I write because I am used to finding my way out whenever I get lost among words, but not to losing them. Without the written words, I feel incomplete; it is a feeling of nonexistence of my existence. It is like filing a missing persons report. On paper, words are existent, but on your mind, they are meaningless; they seem to be deceased with the disappearance of a loved one. And so I write against the pain or the fear or the remorse. I write no matter what it takes away from me and my past or brings it on to me and my future. I write because I am present.

Beril
20/04/10-4/05/10