The Joy and Pain of Words

I pour a jar of ink onto the paper. As the ink flows through the tiny channels and grooves, it starts to gather itself in a semi-coherent manner. As time goes by, it becomes more structured, more intelligable. It’s working its way towards becoming a work of art; a piece of literature that is defined by its creator.

Writing.

Sometimes I wonder whether in the pouring of a jar of ink, I would accomplish more than if I were to meticulously write for hours. What is the difference? I suppose the answer depends on one’s response to another question.

Are people reading what I write?

I—probaly like almost every other writer—want to be heard. It’s funny when you think about it. What makes me so important that I should be heard, and not the thousands of other budding writers? Do I reveal my arrogance in wanting to be heard? So many questions, but too few answers. And so is life.

I can’t be the only writer who looks at the stats section of his/her blog, to doubt the entirety of their existence. (At least I hope not.) If practically no one reads what I write, then why do I do it? Is it because of a naive hope that someday everybody is going to realize that I’m awesome? What about retirement? But I digress…

I really don’t like writing, but as the great Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

I don’t want to write. I’d much rather be a software developer, or small business owner. It certainly would be a more comfortable life, but do people on their deathbed regret not having lived a more comfortable life?

I need to write, but not in some high and mighty sense of endowment or clairvoyance. I need to write for myself. Pouring a jar of ink on a blank sheet of paper provides no hope.

Hope, the last step on the road to despair or salvation.

I must persevere. I must keep writing. For breaking the silence, is the first step to a life of meaning.