Fragments of me are scribbled on paper, thoughts lined up structurally in ink. Words flit around my mind, a disarrayed combination of phrases and sentences that I want to write down but am too disorganized to do so.
For a writer can have neurotic days and nights, and long before you know it, their brains have exploded into activity that cannot be controlled, tamed. An endless stream of ideas will cautiously climb on top of another, piling up and turn into senseless thoughts that can no longer be filtered for too much is going on. A writer will try to keep up with the pace; pen sliding across the paper and fingers flying over the keyboard in a manner that one does not wish to destroy the buttons too hard but excitement has long ridden one into giddiness to seal ideas forever in ink. Vocabulary battles will always be there; a struggle for definitions and satisfaction over synonyms and antonyms that can be further used into describing rich details with lighted illumination.
A writer may have the gift to juggle metaphors into existence and present them in ways that are understandable to the readers but the process itself has thrown one into throes of unending comparison.
How do I get my message across when I, myself, am struggling to cross my ocean of confusion?
I am a girl with no concrete beliefs, whose spoken verdicts sway like the bamboos in the wind, whose convictions shake and tremble like the hanging bridge, and whose stand for certainty can be as fragile as porcelain. I am a girl who is constantly in a tug-of-war, my decisions weighed thoroughly and surely even in mere subjects of which shirt to wear, bag to use, and book to read. I can be as confusing as a labyrinth, as moody as the weather, and as vulnerable as eggshells.
I traipse through undiscovered worlds in my imagination, locked away in a jail of my own making, never seeming to be free in the inside, deceiving the people who I see everyday. I am a prisoner of my own thoughts, delving further into the depths of words and skylines of ideas, never really reaching them no matter how much I stretch my hands towards them. My lips never really seem to move and my unspoken stories are long being latched with chains.
The problem with knowing too much is knowing how to differentiate anything from fantasy to reality. Different versions of the truth will fry the brain. The mind becomes a neurotic storage without seemingly any chance of getting better. Grappling with sentences and structures become a daily routine, a substantial satisfaction but never seeming to be enough. And if you rip them apart, blood wouldn’t be the only thing bleeding out, but unspoken and unheard thoughts will drip onto the floor, too. A writer’s block can feel like the apocalypse; everything trapped in abyss and no matter how much you try to squeeze it all out, nothing will come, nothing will save you from the despair of frustration as you helplessly swipe at anything. But nothing presents itself.
I become bipolar. Writers become bipolar.
But I am a writer.
I will continue to be a writer.
For they can have so many dreams they would want to wove together in a tangle of colors, stories turned into written entertainment, or information to be passed onto the curious.
The struggle remains, and it thrives within.
But the pleasure of stringing the words into a single thought, a whirlwind of meanings and a cornucopia of emotions, is what keeps me going.