Writing is an art. In 7th grade, it wasn’t. In 8th, it wasn’t. In my ninth grade, many, many years ago, my brother started a blogspot page for me. Suddenly, writing became fun. I could finally construct complex sentences and not have to worry about losing points. I could express myself *JUST* as I wanted to, and not have to worry about my words being “too flowery”. And so, I began writing intermittently on my primary blog and excessively on a private blog.
As I grew up, my association with writing changed.
Writing became my way of dealing with the world. ‘Dealing’ may not be the most appropriate choice of word, but it’ll do regardless. Writing became the way I professed love, the way I channeled heartbreak, and the way I communicated with my mother through carefully crafted letters.
And perhaps most importantly, it became a way I found myself, the way I centered myself when everything else spiraled out of control. For those of you who don’t know me, let me tell you three things you ought to know about me –
- It takes very little to make me happy (thank god for that)
- I have the attention span of a goldfish and the memory of a lifeless tank
- I have massive anxiety
Why is this important? Well, if I’m writing about happiness or hope (as you’ll see in the piece below), you need to know where I’m coming from, emotionally. Once you know these three things, I think our virtual association will be perfect.
Now, back to writing.
I wrote the following poem sitting in a waiting room. I was so cozy and comfy in a big sticky leather chair that one point I thought I’d sleep off. Oh, also, I have an uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere. It’s a gift. Just as I was about to doze off, I thought of a plant.
And then, this. came along. And when it did, wonderful things happened. It reminded me of all the work I was putting in to hope more, to have more faith, and to always follow my heart.
Every three seconds the world stops,
the air flattens, the water freezes and my heart skips a beat.
Every three seconds
I come close to collapsing into a tiny chair, existing only in my mind
And hence, in a parallel world.
They say I’m crazy for finding chairs where none exist
But what they don’t know
Is that for every hundred chairs I think of,
I chance upon a park.
In that park
Regardless of weather and occasion
I find a bench
Something that allows me to be grateful to sit
So that the tiny chair, existing only in my mind
Materializes as a bench
And now imagine if I had for a second
Listened to the noise of those who never sit,
I too, might be exhausted
And never at rest.
P.s – That picture above? I had found a chair.