Think of the first book you ever read, you probably cannot remember that one, but you may remember the one that had the most impact on you growing up. You may have forgotten some details, maybe the names of the characters, but you certainly remember the feeling it gave you, it could have made you smile, cry or even frustrated. You may recall identifying with one of the characters, and sensing the happenings that affected them, laughing at their joys, sympathizing with their misery. And that makes you think, you believe that this is what makes a book interesting, worth reading, worth living even. What is the purpose of diving into a story when you cannot live it?
Think again. A bit more…visualize those words that are rushing into your mind, flowing here and there. Those words that are forming a battalion into your skull, this unordered army stomping on the walls of your cranium begging for their freedom. And you want to set them free. Let them take over yourself, let them take over the paper. You wish to be nothing but the quill that manumits them. And you are the slave to these words, aren’t you?
You also think of your condition, and you have bigger aspiration, higher expectations of yourself, you want to write, and you want your scribbles to travel further than you ever will, release them from within, propel them through time and space.
But is it worth it after all? Are you meant to be the Hermes to these gods?
You heathen.
You close your eyes, and listen into the silence. You breathe in, you breathe out. You feel the air filling up your lungs, and you meditate. You wait for the words to rush back into your head but they have decided to remain silent, as if they were contemplating along your side, as if they were counting the stars on your behalf. You wish they would return, but they have decided to remain still. And you take a break, and let them do as they please, act like the capricious child they are, the one that invariably rules over your soul.
And you let yourself be ruled over, practicing a humility that a preacher who has been long gone has spoken once.
What has extinguished the fire that consumed you for years on end? What silenced the voices? You ask yourself again and again, but you could not find any answers. Was it because you abandoned your books? You stopped reading for a while, and focused on producing your own words, words you lacked faith in, and you even stopped writing.
Until that day.
That day that made you realize how short your life actually was, you were tied to a mattress for days, with no company but that of a few books they allowed you to keep. You were stripped off of all of your belongings but your thoughts, your confused thoughts you were so eager to write down but couldn’t. You were too weak to be able to hold anything, and they left as they came, in a whiff, a faint beam of light you couldn’t grasp.
Words came back one day, for a brief moment, and they were different from what they used to be, as if your own weakness had affected them, they were less structured, far less numerous, the loud battalion was conquered, and only few outlived.
You insist on following practices you preach, and let the words act upon their will, but you also fear to never recover what you thought you owned. You wish you could lure them into coming back, fool them, bait them even, whatever it takes to get them back, as your existence had no other meaning beside those words. Sounds, shapes that were yours. Or rather, you were theirs, you were their path into the world. The body in which they flourished, and you have been exorcized.
You would even trade your own voice for the words to come back, it didn’t matter, as you were nothing but a silent vassal anyway.
You have been trying things that proved themselves to work in past times, better times, in vain.
There, you felt something. You could feel the heat flushing in your cheeks, you could sense a tamed down rage taking over you. Maybe that was it; you look around, you see a few people that couldn’t mean less to you, and among them one that was dear to you. You look at the strangers, observe them for a while in silence, waiting for any of them to move you, to strike some interest, a spark, anything. But nothing came through, they were as insignificant as you judged them to be, what could they bring back into you? And you looked away, away from these self-absorbed people, you began to search through the room, as if your creativity were some sort of grain of sand you convinced yourself you could recover, something you could roll in between your fingers.
You listened to some music you couldn’t understand, sat on the floor for hours and waited. And waited a bit more. And you surrendered to the will of these volatile words.
A whisper found its way back into your ears.
***
Writing for me has always been some kind of evidence, an ultimate truth I had to live by. It started off as practicing something I was told to be fairly good at, to becoming a messenger to my thoughts, thoughts that would rather live on a body of paper. I can clearly remember spending hours, days, months even blackening note books, journals and even furniture with words. Creating worlds, playing god with fictional characters I birthed into this world. I would make them as sane or as troubled as I pleased, for they were mine to direct. And as time passed, and as I grew older, words came less frequently, characters became more abstract, and weirdly enough figures I liked to draw followed the same pattern.
***
You noticed that the people you were observing for a brief moment were gone.
You also realize that writing was no longer as easy as it seemed to be. Especially after that episode, as if being left with nothing but your thoughts had made you insensitive to the voices. You cannot perceive them anymore. You think that the realization of your condition had impacted your sense of purpose, and maybe writing was not worth it after all.
You emerge. You have slept onto the floor for a moment. Laying down on the surface, trying to make your thoughts settle down, have them be more grounded, and the void inside your cranium took over, leaving you unconscious for a moment.
You look at the time, a notion you forgot about for the night. And you decide to walk.
As you were walking you were listening to the sounds around you, wishing upon offerings from the world, words of the night. You would hear the wind howling, the crackling of leaves covered in night frost, gravels that rolled under your steps and a chanting of a rooster to the sun who had not yet dared to show itself. Dawn had not broken yet, and yet it felt like an eternity that you were there, catching the glimpse of the few stars that were not veiled in clouds. Hours you were listening for words that were shying away, words that hid themselves beneath the curse of the universe.
***
Conflictual, complex, confusing and yet comforting. This is how I would describe my relationship with literature, words come and go, whether I let them enter me or let them pass through me. Although I detached myself from what I have long deemed to be my main passion, I still am connected to it, as one can never really forget about their first love, and my love for words is a lot more significant than a youthful infatuation, I see it as a journey, a lifelong engagement, an unbreakable vow, and although it leaves in times, and follows an irregular rhythm, it still sets the pace for my life, it takes me back to simpler times, and projects me into dreams I wish to hold on to. I do not strive for recognition or fame, and I do not wish to chain the words that come to me, may they be powerful or translucent. Coexisting with these words, and voicing them out, allow them to move the world, or a chosen few, the way they moved me would be the greatest achievement I would ever long for.
***
You see, as long as you allow yourself to take time to listen for their gentle whispers, words may bless you with their presence, once more. And don’t you dare to ask for how long, for you are nothing but their gateway into the world of those who, like you, wait and listen.