Writing

People often imagine writing as something beautiful. They assume a certain serenity in a writer sitting beside a window, sipping coffee, listening to music and effortlessly turning thoughts into couplets and prose.
Yet, nobody pays heed to what happens before those words become beautiful and poetic.
Writing can be lonely.
Writing can be uprooting.
Writing can be disruptive.
Writing can be confusing.
But above all,
Writing is, was and always will be difficult.
The process in its blueprints is pretty simple: catching an idea and stirring it up in a pot, and pouring this solution into the vessel of a poetry or a prose. Neat in its appearance.
What no one notices or cares to notice is the spills that surround this vessel. Of things that are left unsaid of things that cannot be transferred.
As a 12 year old, who had just began her pen at poetry, I too, like all else, assumed a serenity, or sanity to say the least, in this profound profession of prophetic career. A line devoted to soul and not mind or body. A labour of the heart.
With time, with reading and ofcourse with writing I discovered how misled the whole jdea really is to someone looking from the outside. While I do not claim being completely inside yet, still, a closer look towards the heart pf what the world sees humbled me immensely.
I first wrote a book at the age of 19 and like any other 19 year old, my poetry was youthful, unpolished and greatly influenced by the romantics. The need for embellishments and aesthetics dominated most of my work and as I look back I find it childish. Yet, this arc is important and natural to every writing and everything else too.
Every poet begins somewhere, some pain, some suffering. Keats too sought to find comfort by the meaans of poetry and he too later realised that poetry is not the romanticised escape that it is so often advertised to be.
When I started writing, really writing, digging into emotions that needed to be said, into words that cannot express and into sentences that weren’t enough, I too found the exhaustion that the real process is. Ripped of its embellishments, its beauty and its sheer aestheticism, raw writing is nothing but truth. And this truth requires more than just pretty words already existing in the dictionary.
Writing is therefore difficult.