Words: Through The Eyes of a Writer
There is this movie; a movie about a man who wrote a book about a writer who found a book. The book which the writer had found was written by an old war-veteran; but he had not known this when he submitted it as his own. The writer of the book, the writer in the book and the old man all share one thing in common: they are all writers. Each had a story, and each story lead them to the craft. Each story began with love; and each ends with heartache and tears. I am a writer, and I too have one such story.
It began at the end of an adventure I wished would never end. Like many others who had walked this path, I learned the hard way that love - the purest and strongest source of inspiration - can also be the most cursed. I fell in love with an idea; and the idea was beautiful. It was the idea of laying in bed beside the woman who kept my heart beating. It was the idea of waking up to my favourite dream every morning; the one where it's her lips that breathé life into my own at every sunrise. It was the idea of happiness which I fell in love with.
Like all dreams, however, the eventuality of waking was inevitable. When I finally did wake it was to a nightmare: my life had collapsed all around me. There was no up nor down, there was only here: and here was dark, cold and asphyxiating. I prayed long days and nights for it to end; I cried for long hours for the emptiness inside me to fill, and for the pain to stop. I clawed at my soul, trying to scratch the unshakable itch for peace, yet no amount of scratching could cure me. And when all else failed, I turned to the one companion who has not yet abandoned me. I turned to fiction.
Many take for granted how simple it is to retreat into one's own mind; to withdraw from reality and escape its stifling walls. The human imagination, though some claim not to have one, is a powerful tool against the world and all its sorrow. That is why it is with such ease that those who believe in fantasy, and know how to access it in the recesses of their minds, grow to find solace in it; and never leave its enchanting abyss.
It seems a long while back when I last felt anything. Not the comforter's touch, nor the fat lady's final call. I neither hear nor see further than my words: words telling of adventures to a distant city, where the night was spent aimlessly searching for shelter. Words expressing deep remorse for sexual encounters with females who never truly meant to me any of what I said they did. Words written to all, yet revealing nothing of my deterioration.
I sought help for my anguish. And thus begins the story of my rehabilitation into reality. My eyes opened one day, and for the first time in the longest of whiles I saw myself: clean-shaven, young, full of dreams which will never see realization if I continued feeding into my despondency. I saw for the first time that I had not felt the comforter's touch because there had been none, for I was alone. Yet I knew that I had not felt the fat lady's final call for it had not been sounded. For the first time, I truly saw hope.
This sense of hope was not for redemption; nor was it for ever finding true love or for life itself. It was the hope in me and what I can do which I saw in the eyes of those who never stopped believing in me. There are times when this hope is not enough, and I claw at the bare skin on my chest to try dig out my heart in the hope that it would stop hurting so bad. Those are the days where I want nothing more than to answer Death's knock when He finally comes. He never came, Godot. Yet some nights I wait anxiously: prepared to travel alongside Him to the other side.
I wake up many a morning surprised that He has yet again failed to collect me.
Many a morning, when my eyes open, I curse Him for leaving me on this world to deal with my mortal thoughts: thoughts which I fear may be memories ... memories of a child long ago, laying in a dark hospital ward; alone, forgotten, unwanted. Memories of a child long ago who's world was shaken by a remorseless feud between his mother and father which would come back years later to haunt his very existence. Memories of a child long ago who lived in fear of a constant barrage of insults, who lived in fear of the unshakable dark cloud of insecurities which hovered without a care over him as he waded his way through storm after storm.
In a sense, a part of me has given up the good fight. I no longer see any use for it. I resent that the world forced me to bear arms; I resent that I let it even more. This is not the end of my story, but it certainly is the beginning of a whole new adventure. It has been a long year. Then again, when has it not been? The one thing I have is the hope I see in the eyes of those I regard as being most dear to me; those who have seen and continue seeing the very best of me - even when I fail to see this in myself. I may never be any more than but a mere writer in my own eyes, yet to some I am a lot more than this. I am a son, a brother, a friend and a lover. And through these many eyes which see more in me than I do, I see tomorrow.
It began at the end of an adventure I wished would never end. Like many others who had walked this path, I learned the hard way that love - the purest and strongest source of inspiration - can also be the most cursed. I fell in love with an idea; and the idea was beautiful. It was the idea of laying in bed beside the woman who kept my heart beating. It was the idea of waking up to my favourite dream every morning; the one where it's her lips that breathé life into my own at every sunrise. It was the idea of happiness which I fell in love with.
Like all dreams, however, the eventuality of waking was inevitable. When I finally did wake it was to a nightmare: my life had collapsed all around me. There was no up nor down, there was only here: and here was dark, cold and asphyxiating. I prayed long days and nights for it to end; I cried for long hours for the emptiness inside me to fill, and for the pain to stop. I clawed at my soul, trying to scratch the unshakable itch for peace, yet no amount of scratching could cure me. And when all else failed, I turned to the one companion who has not yet abandoned me. I turned to fiction.
Many take for granted how simple it is to retreat into one's own mind; to withdraw from reality and escape its stifling walls. The human imagination, though some claim not to have one, is a powerful tool against the world and all its sorrow. That is why it is with such ease that those who believe in fantasy, and know how to access it in the recesses of their minds, grow to find solace in it; and never leave its enchanting abyss.
It seems a long while back when I last felt anything. Not the comforter's touch, nor the fat lady's final call. I neither hear nor see further than my words: words telling of adventures to a distant city, where the night was spent aimlessly searching for shelter. Words expressing deep remorse for sexual encounters with females who never truly meant to me any of what I said they did. Words written to all, yet revealing nothing of my deterioration.
I sought help for my anguish. And thus begins the story of my rehabilitation into reality. My eyes opened one day, and for the first time in the longest of whiles I saw myself: clean-shaven, young, full of dreams which will never see realization if I continued feeding into my despondency. I saw for the first time that I had not felt the comforter's touch because there had been none, for I was alone. Yet I knew that I had not felt the fat lady's final call for it had not been sounded. For the first time, I truly saw hope.
This sense of hope was not for redemption; nor was it for ever finding true love or for life itself. It was the hope in me and what I can do which I saw in the eyes of those who never stopped believing in me. There are times when this hope is not enough, and I claw at the bare skin on my chest to try dig out my heart in the hope that it would stop hurting so bad. Those are the days where I want nothing more than to answer Death's knock when He finally comes. He never came, Godot. Yet some nights I wait anxiously: prepared to travel alongside Him to the other side.
I wake up many a morning surprised that He has yet again failed to collect me.
Many a morning, when my eyes open, I curse Him for leaving me on this world to deal with my mortal thoughts: thoughts which I fear may be memories ... memories of a child long ago, laying in a dark hospital ward; alone, forgotten, unwanted. Memories of a child long ago who's world was shaken by a remorseless feud between his mother and father which would come back years later to haunt his very existence. Memories of a child long ago who lived in fear of a constant barrage of insults, who lived in fear of the unshakable dark cloud of insecurities which hovered without a care over him as he waded his way through storm after storm.
In a sense, a part of me has given up the good fight. I no longer see any use for it. I resent that the world forced me to bear arms; I resent that I let it even more. This is not the end of my story, but it certainly is the beginning of a whole new adventure. It has been a long year. Then again, when has it not been? The one thing I have is the hope I see in the eyes of those I regard as being most dear to me; those who have seen and continue seeing the very best of me - even when I fail to see this in myself. I may never be any more than but a mere writer in my own eyes, yet to some I am a lot more than this. I am a son, a brother, a friend and a lover. And through these many eyes which see more in me than I do, I see tomorrow.
It's rough when you fall so low and hit rock bottom, but what we tend to forget is that when you hit rock bottom the only way to go is up. "This is not the end of my story, but it certainly is the beginning of a whole new adventure." YES !
ReplyDeleteI love this -> " I fell in love with an idea; and the idea was beautiful. It was the idea of laying in bed beside the woman who kept my heart beating. It was the idea of waking up to my favourite dream every morning; the one where it's her lips that breathe life into my own at every sunrise. It was the idea of happiness which I fell in love with."
If I end up with a man in my life in the next month, this will probably be one of the things that trigger it ! (but let's not hold our breathes ! :P )