Inspired Much? Kinda

December 2018

Inspired Much? Kinda

Uninspired. Uh, so uninspired at 12 a.m.

Writing even about being uninspired makes me more uninspired.

But here I am, trying my luck at it. Maybe it’ll inspire something great?

So instead, I changed my mind and decided to write about inspiration. Maybe that’ll bring a solution to my writer’s block? Hopefully.

I’m going to go into every aspect of inspiration I’ve seen, or at least experienced personally. 

This was, as the month suggests, about the ending year. The year of 2018 has been way to beautiful for me and it’s hard not getting emotional as it comes to an end. Though every moment hasn’t been inspirational in the positive sense, it has given a clearer view of the world – some of them being bitter truths, making me wonder if I wanted to know of the cruelty or be backstabbed by it later.

Days poured and disappeared into the mound of sand, each granule going uncherished. This happens to all of us, but how many times to we count the granules and smile at them, tears in eyes? How many times do we look at the unwanted rocks and thank them for hurting our soft inexperienced hands?

While my mind obliviously went by the past 12 years of my existence, experimental year 2018 showed me that we see no one as perfect and we are perfect in no one’s eyes. It showed me that imperfections flaw us like spots on the face and makeup always washes off.

This all started when I was feeling adventurous. My mind always grasped thoughts flying ahead but never bothered to decipher the complexity of the language. 

But days come where invisibility makes you to take charge and try instead of using Google translate for emotions.

I opened my computer to write the first of my ‘abstract’ poems, as I had liked calling it. The inspiration? The plain old night sky polluted by fumes of darkness. Looking back, it was nothing but mediocre. But pride fills me when truth hits – it was imperfect and not plagiarised. In fact, it inspired plagiarism, the ultimate honour for an artist, nevertheless annoying.

Taking the moon, comparing it to a radish slice (what was I even thinking?), and imagining a fantasy of a connection between normalcy and beauty. In fact, wasn’t there already beauty in the smallest of things?

My poetry was bare. No rhymes. No syllable patterns. Just words that were cried, bled, vomited, or laughed. Sometimes they were songs of the birds. Sometimes they were the cries of the mourning. Sometimes they were just confusion.

Poetry awoke awareness in me. I could read myself in my poetry. Everyone could read themselves in my poetry. My poetry wasn’t just for me. My poetry was for everyone.

Roses can prick you with pretty thorns. Hearts are stronger that glass, one can’t shatter it completely, yet it chips away with every impacting stone. 

A sentence, so many scenarios. 

I went on to write a book of poetry, titled ‘Blind Deceit’, in honour of all of the cunningness that makes the sighted blind. 

I paired my words with visual impact, pairing them with pictures which were pieces of poetry themselves.

Poetry has let me translate my heart’s musings. Humanly hearings and mortal messages of unwanted truth flood me. Poetry has let me channelize my ugly observances into bitter beauty when I have been affected by the poison of pain.

Writing has caused me to sob silently away from sight for I felt that I would be nobody without one small ‘talent’. Was it talent or just me writing a stream of words strung through a thread of fame? 

‘Stars can’t shine without darkness’, as cliché as it is, it’s what writing is.

What is a bit of sadness drilling a tiny hole in you mind when you have poetry healing you as well?

As aimless as this post might have seemed, it is an, as I like to call it, ‘abstract’ story of mine. I wrote this to thank that invisible force that forced me to try. I wrote this to thank the small grains of sand that I get to keep in my hands for a while. I wrote this to thank everything in 2018 that has turned me into a person I never saw in myself. 

Poetry has joined my list of the gainers of my trust, the rest of my list being none but my parents. With the harshness of the world, one fact clings onto me – trusting anyone with emotions is sheer stupidity. Sheer, sheer stupidity.