Ranting of A Writer

Here is a ranting of a broken heart. A tale behind The Writer’s words. A girl that The Writer just couldn’t stop… letting go?! And you know what’s weird? Somewhere, The Writer made her let go of him. And The Writer is holding tight onto her memories. Forever and ever and………. wait how long can The Writer keep writing ‘ever’ here?

You have all heard of The Writer speaking about her honey eyes. Her dreamy smile. Her slender arms. But what if The Writer has been lying all along? All those words were not to satisfy the readers, but to force himself to believe that he still feels the same for her like the old days. And did you ever wonder about what is inside his head?

Let me first start by apologising. We, writers, are guilty of romanticising sadness. We talk about the darkness in metaphors. We leave things unfinished. We chase trains that get us nowhere. We write poetry about cigarettes and cyclones. We make constellations out of scars. We make people cry and then provide the tissues, too. We devour fiction and escape reality. 

But hear me, no fiction, no dream, no grand poetry is as real as reality. We have talked so much about being rebuilt from the ruins, but never the process. Never the daily rise and fall. We have forgotten that sadness isn't the shade of autumn leaves. We have forgotten that anxiety is not a bundle of relatable memes. We have overlooked that depression isn't a casual word to throw around, it isn't a "mood" for a status update on Facebook.

It is real. It is voices you hear that pull you down. It is a fear that something ugly lurks around the corner, everytime you try to be happy. It is missed alarms, and drawn curtains, cups of teas turned cold and an anxious look at the notifications bar. It is a bag of apologies that accompanies your occasional opening up, replaced quickly by the "I am fine, thank yous".  

So, I am sorry. If I ever made you feel that you had to be ruined to be saved. Scars don't form constellations and cigarettes don't smoke out the dark. Darkness is real, but not comforting. Heartbreak is real, not poetry. Talk to me; I am here. Without my metaphors, without quotes. Just silence, and a cup of tea.

Her arms were around The Writer but he did not feel the warmth of her touch. Or the caress of her cheeks against his. Not anymore. There was nothing special about her hug. Not today.  She pressed her lips against The Writer’s. There were no flames blazing. Or sparks inside his heart—which is now just an organ. He did not swirl or returned the gesture; or tried tangling the love, for he had none. Her lips were a stranger to him. Her eyes were a book he could never read. And her hands were the path he would never linger around, ever again.

And, if you ask The Writer, whether he really felt nothing? He would say: Not for once. He had a sensation of the surrounding. He was aware of her touches, but from the inside, it was not the same before. It was all… Fine. Or good. 

But somewhere, he hopes to feel these emotions, again. The Writer knows it’s hard. Hard to put up with the chaos. To fight. But somewhere… someday, he knows it will all be worth it. And that’s why he puts bits of himself in his characters. To keep his old-self alive. Just for her sake. And not to forget himself.

Here is the difference between Feeling and Understanding. When you feel, you live it but it’s temporary. You can’t always describe it accurately. It’s a good thing. You can let go of that feeling. But when you understand, you just can’t get it outside of your head. It will always be there. A sense. And you can put it up accurately. Like The Writer does in most of his writings. The Writer understands the pain, the happiness, the depression, for he talks about them and puts them up in his story.

His life is complicated as much as this blog. The heart is empty yet there is a weight. Something that makes him not him. Maybe, someone even sadder. You live forever if you make a little space inside a writer’s heart, they say. But the writer dies every day, they never say.