Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Blank Pages

We write beautifully when we are in pain, when we are longing for something, searching for a definitive word that will define the feeling that we cannot name. Writing takes a certain amount of truth and a certain amount of lies, balancing one with the other is no mean feat. We attempt to find meaning in the smallest of things: a butterfly alighting on a damp leaf, strobe lights painting patterns on a wall, an abstract splash of water on the table.

Right now, the difficulty now is to write in a place that has nothing to do with myself, that is totally devoid of who I am right now. There has to be a way of sounding true even though everything is false, to turn and uncover new and shining truths despite the removal of the self from the stories, to be heard even though it is not my voice anymore.

Maybe this is why we fear happiness, stability, a sense of rootedness - we lose what is in our power to write. We pen down words for fear of loss, absence, while at the same tiem acknowledging that even words are not forever, that there is still transience that moves us from one place to the next. We write because we are searching. We are never truly satisfied.

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