When I can’t write, I reach for it in areas that I haven’t looked at in a while. I try to retrace my steps on paths previously trodden. Often wearily, but hopeful that somehow, I will find the switch again. When I can finally hold it, it feels like a lock has clicked into place. Like water flowing in an arid land, like thirst quenched on the sunniest afternoon. My most difficult moments are often marked by an inability to write or better put, to create. The map becomes hidden and there lies a maze that is frustratingly quiet. Whenever I am in a writing rut, every surface becomes a mirror reflecting my emptiness back at me.
I am aware that for many, writing exists as an escape. For me, it has never been that way. Perhaps because my head is already in the clouds anyway. Therefore I write to tether myself. Writing helps me anchor my being and consequently make sense of the parts of myself that I don’t have a language for. When I write, it feels as though I am reaching into the deep crevices of life and weaving my fingers through the literal fabric of consciousness. It’s liberating, it’s fun. It’s freeing because you can do whatever you want. It’s pleasurable for the same reason too.
Writing makes me feel like a conduit and I genuinely believe it to be true. There are some things you do for the sake of art. Not because you want to become popular or reach the largest audience. You hope that you do, of course, but in and of itself, that isn’t the primary point. You create because if you don’t do it, there’s a burning in your chest and a yearning in your soul that nothing else in the world can quench or fill other than the simple act of doing what you have to do. This is how I feel when I write.
Follow the channel