Writing

I love the clack of the keyboard under my fingers. I love the sensation of pulling meaning from literally nothing, the creation of sense and purpose from the blankness of a white page. I love the feeling of typing away, constantly missing keys and hitting the back button more than any other, the constantly growing lines of black text upon a white background.

I love how, with a moment’s thought and little preparation I can conjure from nothing an entire world. Like:

A world where darkness reigns. The sun, long past its prime, hums in the sky like a lidded eye as people shift restlessly through days of twilight and nights of utter black. Neon bathed entertainment districts provide sparse solace, the few remaining bright-lights casting shadows of monsters and heroes upon cracked white sheets. The youngsters hear tales of the Light That Was and adults reminisce of morning’s first rays drifting lazily through parted curtains.

I mean, there’s not much sense there, but I love that I can do that. I don’t think everyone can do that. I mean, I don’t know. I assume that not literally everyone can do that. Which is nice. Sometimes it’s nice to be selfish and concentrate on things you can do that perhaps others cannot.

I love that I can spill my innermost thoughts onto a page and read them back in a year’s time with no memory of having ever had them. It’s a teaching method, in a way, to look back on one’s thoughts writ large having thought so little of them in the long term that they did not even warrant a memory. I have entries from my travel diaries of incidents I can only remember through the lens of the page and my written word upon it.

I love having written. The act of writing itself can be an exercise in frustration, it can be a horrible, soul wrenching endeavour that creates doubts that you should even be attempting to perform an act which some deem as the ultimate expression of human creativity. Other times the words come easily and your faith is renewed and all is well with the world. The latter is unfortunately far less common than the former.

I love that I can feel myself improving. Even in aimless doodling such as this. The simple act of stamping down one word after the other, forming clauses, and sentences and paragraphs and seeing the fruits of my labour is encouraging and more importantly, codifying. The act of writing is its own reward, even when the process itself feels sluggish and monotonous, a fight through a self created fug of random thought and distraction.