“Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts—instinct is a marvelous thing, it can neither be explained nor ignored.”
My chest is heavily laden with emotions far too compelling but then my instincts tell me to not dwell in those feelings—for time itself forbids me. But then again, I’m neither ignorant nor oblivious to the narrow obscurities that are suppose to break me. Just because my tongue is tied does not mean my other senses are barricaded by the same principle. I play by my instincts, just like anyone else, and for that matter, the above statement holds true. I seized it from a book I recently finished reading.
There are two things that I dislike whenever I read. First is that my mind gets too cluttered with a thousand strikes of inspiration that I lose track of the salient points that I would later want to impart through my own writing. Second, I often get stuck with the admiration I have for the brilliant mind who wrote it. I’d be staring, with mouth agape—at a certain page, a certain paragraph, a certain sentence that took my breath away and whisper to myself of how astute the writer is for coming up with such a clever way of arranging thoughts into words.
“You give too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant and a bad master.”
Imagination under control is a great ally but if you let it take the lead, then the tables will turn. Why? Because imagination is practically a free flowing thought on a river of infinite possibilities that can steer anywhere without limits and you, being a mortal entity and all, are bound by physical borders. There are places where your imagination can go but you can’t follow. All of what I’m saying is of course—in every patent way, metaphorical and yet very practical, so I take it that only a few drops of common sense would do the trick.
Most people tell me that my thoughts are set far beyond my youth and that it culminates in a manner only understood by those whose confidence lie in wisdom. I politely disagree. My thoughts are neither beneath nor beyond my age—for thoughts don’t follow the rule of senility that naturally forms the curvature of life. Thoughts have no form, no age—it does not stop and it is neither bound by space nor time. It only accumulates…differently, of course, for life pans out variously in a million directions so as to maintain individuality, which is a crucial part of humanity.
“Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.”
This is the last pertinent point that I would like to convey from the novel I read. And I must admit that it took me no shorter than five minutes before I got over my fascination with this line. It’s because it undeniably exhibits my way of thinking and yet, I wasn’t able to come up with such a shrewd method to put it together myself. It really does take a very talented writer to reach out to other people’s natural thought drift. And for that, my admiration for the author grew deeper.
I envy those writers who have found an abode under a specific literary genre, may that be novels, poems, news writing and so on. It’s because having a forte in writing is tantamount to having an unyielding foundation and a fighting chance in the literary world. Whereas writers like me are more of nomads in this lands. We roam, we walk, we adapt to all genres and yet, excel in none. We are but mere shadows in the written world—existing only in nooks and crannies, feeding off of whatever erudite sense we have in us, known only to few and nonexistent to most. Writers like me are born in ambiguity and will die in ambiguity. Melancholic as it is but that is reality—or at least, that is the closest perspective that obscure writers, like me, have of reality.
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