The other day I saw news of a 14-year-old publishing successful books over a virtual platform and by the looks of the covers that the books portrayed, the fonts, and the design gave me the impression that the books she wrote held considerable position given it was such a highlight. Throughout the world, unlike us, people like this fourteen-year-old teenage girl utilized their time to create while we were busy procrastinating. I objectively looked back on everything I had done so far with the time I had at hand and realized that nothing of value came to my mind. I do have a habit of self-deprecation, nothing I do seems good enough in my own eyes thus the excuse to not do it at all.
I wonder what stops us, people who feel a sense of guilt watching others work their way up but never give themselves the freedom to do the same. What gives? I guess her circumstances may have been unique in a sense for her to produce books one on top of the other, you need to have that drive that keeps you from falling short come what may. My point is that I had similar aspirations once, perhaps I still do, I guess my resentment comes from my self and it is just projecting at the moment. I wonder how many years it has been before I had the privilege of making sense of it or at least holding on to its momentum.
A few days back, I started reading “On Writing” by Stephen King because I was ashamed of myself for not doing what I wanted to all this time. In contrast, he never stopped writing even after hundreds of rejections later, fearless in his pursuit. This is what is he says:
“So okay― there you are in your room with the shade down and the door shut and the plug pulled out of the base of the telephone. You’ve blown up your TV and committed yourself to a thousand words a day, come hell or high water. Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about? And the equally big answer: Anything you damn well want.”
― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
I feel like, English, even with its diversity of words can’t capture the complete depth of feelings in general. On occasions, while there may be a word for everything in this language but nothing hits the spot like a word borrowed from another language. French, for what it’s worth has expressions that will be naked like a tree branch. These are feelings, expressed by certain words that make complete sense to us while knee-deep in exhaustion. The anxiety accumulating inside your chest is as if a boat- normally hollow- was breached by waves in an endless sea. However, French people built this one word; Ennui: a state of restlessness that rises from the lack of occupation or job, like a song plays in your ears but the language is unknown. They know what they’re doing with their language, their job as a language speaks volumes about human emotion in the most singular way possible.
At times like these, you also want to think about things. Nothing specific at all. Although there must have been sunny days like this in the past that I practically slipped by. I can’t remember anything or choose not to. I have to ask myself why that is. But that in itself is something I don’t feel particularly psyched about. The always erring mental images that might come to me if I am due for a task like this. Even so, if I ask you to tell me something you remember about a day as clear as this, I wonder what you’d do. I wonder if my restlessness is mine alone, the wasted motivation that flies by every time I wake up planning to make the day count.
However, the more you think about it, the more fascinating it is. I’d like to rip the band-aid sometimes. Find the address to a day that seems ridiculous to bring up and have a laugh. The laughter doesn’t exist, nor does the crying or sobbing. I’m filled with frustrations and frankly biting my nails as I recall anything briefly. The idea seems simple, I don’t think I look back too often. Also, honestly, if I find myself adrift to only sift from what I can remember of my significance- perhaps it will be worth it.
Looking at the state of us, our lives dull as grey slates with nothing but futile metaphors that we’ll never come to face. No roller-coasters for our emotions, or our lives, a straight line from the start that is afraid to bend. Our existence must be almost alien, what’s a college graduate to think if all of the past three or four years come to your mind like a clear mirror reflecting nothing but a projection of you. Void of everything, a ball of the skull for a face removed of its senses.
A twisted sense of horror it is. You know the taste of hunger, you’ve had years of experience with it but as you age. Something about it seems off. My mother still cooks the same way, the taste is the same but it never feels the same in your mouth. Only your memory seems to recall the taste. At these times, I wonder if I am picking up on the taste. It’s so weird. Your sense of taste is affected for various reasons and you don’t look forward to spending time at the dinner table. You can only think of certain consistencies, like how your food of comfort somehow still retains the taste. You feel the hunger, you feel the thirst but you’re looking for sustenance and nothing other than sustenance has crossed your mind for a while.
It’s fair and foul. You don’t know how it began. You don’t know what caused it, but’s spread like a web inside your lungs and it is heavy to breathe the same air every day as you wake up stifled from your sufferings. There’s probably is a lot on your plate or it is empty, like a wrapper in the wind, you’re flailing in the wind. I have not for so long woke up and said something positive about myself. Stephen King talks about his alcoholism in the book I mentioned earlier, after years of writing he’d come to realize that he had been writing about himself. While I don’t write as often, but it’s a deep-rooted problem that I don’t realize my worth. I am writing so I can come to some closure with myself.
It’s not the food, or whatever you think it is.