I always knew what my true calling was, yet I did not want to pursue it.
Writing for me was a recluse, from the world. And it took me to unimaginable heights. I never had such joy that I had from writing. I was quite a good writer when I was young, and yet, I purposefully destroyed it, in order to find things to write about and try to find inspiration, money and whatnot. Because I did not want to commit to writing. At any given time I would rather do anything else except for the thing I enjoy, am I a sadist?
Why did I want to cloud my thoughts all the time? Because clouds made rain? And I wanted to sound like rain? Raindrops that soothe someone to sleep. I was scared of organised thoughts too. Because wayward thoughts seemed to be the perfect thing to inspire. Yet I knew I knew I knew it…somehow I knew this wayward will makes sense. I think it does. I think I planned this all at the back of my head. Everything from the broken heart to where I am now. Because I didn't want to commit because I wanted to love and not marry. I wanted to love purely my only love in the world. And I wanted to keep it from everything. Even from myself.
Because when there was a lack of love it suffocated me. And I could not reciprocate the lack of love through something artificial. It has to be an inspired thought it has to be the love the way I wanted not love’s way. It had to be my love for it and not love’s reciprocation. And when I knew that I was being haunted by the structures of my thoughts I wanted to escape them. Because I am scared of commitment, I am scared of the flight.
I used to be organised in my thoughts, but I let my thoughts wayward because I felt that I was being too constrained. And in a way, this confusion made life easier. Because if I wrote and if I could listen to all my thoughts and they would all make sense. Then I would be terrified at the projection saying to myself am I so small. Writing sometimes also meant that I had to organise my thoughts. But instead of curating the thoughts, I wanted to run away from them. From my own voice.
I am finding it again. I am!
And it does sound like raindrops sometimes. And raindrops soothed me. I never wanted to be soothed. I wanted to be out there screaming with the wind.
And so I will tell you that this time I will not be afraid of my own echo. It shall be heard from the highest mountains.