On writers and poets

- the truth about writers and poets through

fact and fiction

Origins
A writer is never just a writer. A writer is an actor in transition through his words. He is
constantly morphing and switching roles as his words sway around him, much like an actor
switching expressions between his multiple dialogues, a writer masks his multiple roles as his
words start to form.
Some days he’s a mourner bereaving his loss, on most days he writes endlessly on how he
longs to die, only once in a blue moon a writer falls in love, and they fall so hard they make
that person their muse until their verses bedecked with dotting become frosted over with
forlorn on a lone winter moon. Crestfallen
And just like that a writer will never be a writer.
Writing is a gift of pain. Writers suffer their own hell on earth, they are cursed beings who
write words that have little to do with curing the scathing wounds than to scab the healed
scars. They are sentinel beings who would say, the pain, the suffering is not their own but a
reflection of those around them, an inference of the exodus of emotions of those around them.
A writer would never truly accept what he writes is what ails his heart because he’s most
afraid of being perceived in terms of what ails his heart, he fears what the world would make
of his incomprehensible pain. A writer would always make his words appear in the
generalized sense of it and would more often than not portray his own experiences as if
looked on from a third perspective.
After years of writing, the dilemmas of being a writer kept slapping me in the face as of
frozen waters electrifying. One particular dilemma that haunts me still and is my personal
insecurity around being a writer is being understood.
You see if someone understands us writers our guise would fall out and we would no longer
be ex-communicado, incognito sentinel beings of eloquent words, we’ll be among the most
tortured beings who survived long enough to torture themselves each time they picked a
string of words to stab it through their already dying hearts.
Writers are what their scathing wounds make them. Writers are those who chose a paper to be
their listener when the world turned, when they lost all faith in the whole of the human race
they become the ones spreading hope under their seclusion from all society. How ironic when
the world failed them they became the ones to give the world reasons not to fail a person
again.
Because accept it or not everyone remembers what a writer wrote but they fail to perceive the
multitude of phases that writer must have gone through, they’ll always fail to see the
callouses under his feet it took to become a writer, to write such powerful words with such
powerful meanings.
But a writer, we may be a forgetful genus, we may forget what time of the day it is once we
put pen on paper, it may slip off our heads that today perhaps is an event important to you,
but we’ll always remember the sound of your voice, how your voice modulates in tone at
various points, we’ll always sense your presence from afar, even in a crowd of thousands
we’ll recognize you by the tiny scratch on your shoe of which you may not even be aware of
but we remember.
We’re a creature of details. We note the littlest of details which escape the attention of many.
How could we not be the saddest creatures to be sent on earth when we remember everything
like it was only yesterday.
How is the heart of a writer so strong to hold so much and still not stop beating under the
crushing weight of it.
Writers are humans of a superiority unparalleled among the human races. All our moments
flash before our eyes alive and lively like watching them replay again and again on a
telescreen. Writers are born with a cursed memory, everything you’ve said to them would
remain fresh in their memories even ages since you’ve left them.
If you ever come across a writer, observe how a writer observes. No one would appear more
immersed in you than a writer would. To them you’re not just a human, you’re a poetry
waiting to be explored. To be devoured and doused in words written all over in your little
human habits.
How writers are the most romantic species with the most failed romances.
A writer, true to the passion of his pain would never voluntarily want to see another become a
writer. Because writers are not born. Writers are not made. Writing is not a career. Writing is
not a profession. Writing is not a day job.
Writers are impassioned beings forced by their circumstances to succumb to such fate of
writing. We never partake joy in our words, our own words shed their meanings to us as more
words keep piling and the pain seems to go nowhere.
Writing is a maddening pursuit. Its addictive and its maddening. It’s a loop where you only
get sucked in more. A writer walks along the same lines as a hysteric. He’s delusional. He has
lost his sense of reality. He writes and he writes all night. His words come unbidden to him,
and he writes anywhere because he just wants to get these thoughts coded before they’re
mudded between delusions and reality. Because there’s so much to think and so much to write
and the words would never stop pouring so he writes, and he writes…
Day 532 Letters to your lost self: On writers
And he becomes a madman. And he gets sucked in the loop. And he gets addicted with
a horrific glint to his now buttoned eyes because he wrote all night, every night, his
words breaking a sweat never allowing him respite because at this point he remembers
nothing. Everything is diffused between delusions and reality, the origins to his pain
are now lost and all that remains is a haughty pursuit to document the ever-flowing
downpour of words.

And that makes him a writer. And that is how a writer is made. And that is why all the best
writers went bonkers in the end.

Metamorphosis
To be a writer is to live a thousand different lives within a lifetime. To be a writer is to go
through a thousand murders of the person who they used to be. To be a writer is to be an
adaption of a thousand different personalities. Because it is only a writer who could be as
dynamic as an actor in a Greek tragedy, to reclaim the ability to walk into the conscious of
another.
The work of a writer is an immersive art. It is the art of blending in. It requires patience and
deliberation. A good writer is like a nice sponge, absorbs beyond its holding capacity and
holds for however long. Though plainly holding in would adversely impact, even a sponge
that’s been holding water for longer would start to loose its holding capacity, its pores would
expand spilling water, not in bits but in streams flowing in every direction.
Sponging is what takes effect when a writer has bottled his thoughts for so long that now his
words would pour out to no end. Writing comes across as an unconscious activity where the
brain is not forced to arrange certain words in a certain symphony, nevertheless writing is a
fathomless ocean where the brain is merely a lifeless limb drowning somewhere in the middle
of all that is there to be said, all the words paddling and gushing it in different directions and
the brain is guided where the words may flow.
This is why writers have been the most silent beings with a plethora of words to say. They’ve
convinced themselves of silence over loudness meanwhile negating to take cognizance of the
loudness of their own beating hearts, getting more frantic and palpitating with each moment
passed off in silence. And this is why writers are peculiar creatures because when they dive
headfirst in writing their central cognition is replaced by their hearts. Their hearts become the
locus of all musings and ramblings made in the meadow of thoughts.
Because there lingers a yearning to be heard a writer’s conscious signals them to take out that
paper and cry their hearts out. Much too much to our surprise once we start crying our hearts
out through words, our hearts never stop crying. Our hearts always finds more reasons. More
words. Because of the sponging the writer went through.
A writer metamorphose,
Sponging → transferring cognition → heart becomes the brain → emotional awakening →
actor in transition through words
Like a butterfly, a writer transforms from its cocoon of silence to a prolific creature of
beautiful words.

The muse
To quote the oft quoted “before you die, experience the love of a writer, poet, or painter. If
you’re lucky enough to be a writer’s muse, they will immortalize you.”
A writer cannot be separate from its subject. The writer and his muse ought to be one in the
same, they should become the same entity. A writer should never exist separate from his
subject. He must soak himself in his muse to the point he undoes what made him, him and
rework what his subject made him.
A writer should be of the capacity of a feather, capable of being veneered as the winds may
guide the feather’s path, as the emotional turbulence of his subject guides him. He must let go
of himself, let loose his mind limb by limb letting the conscious of his subject infiltrate his
conscious thoughts.
As immersive an art writing is, as immersed a writer ought to be in the subject of his amusing
thoughts. His subject should be his temple, his meditation, his contemplation, in that moment
all that must exists is the writer and his subject merging into another.

But is the subject the same as his muse? It brings us to another different debate.