I turn on the song, my favorite writing song, and wait for inspiration to hit me.
Something has to be written today. It’s been way too long since I’ve actually finished writing something. My mind is heading towards spontaneous combustion unless I can fill up this page with at least halfway coherent sentences. I need to write. I want to write. I want to be a writer. There, I said it. That is what I want.
I want a house with a library, all four walls lined with books. I want a sunroof and a comfy armchair with a footrest. I want endless cups of rong cha with lemon and honey. I want my bright pink laptop, balanced on the armrest. I want good music playing in the background. All my writing songs. I want the words to flow out of me. And when I’m done, I want to go find you.
Writing, to me, is an outlet for all the excesses my mind insists on. The excess anger, the excess pain, the excess happiness, and the excess love. Especially the excess love. Sometimes I wonder if all the reading has twisted my mind into an over the top romanticizing instrument. Maybe all the beauty I insist on seeing isn’t real. Maybe it’s just the wishful thinking of a naïve eighteen year old. Maybe a few years later, I’ll shake my head at the child I used to be. Till then, I’ll hang on to my rose tinted glasses. I like the world I see through them.
Do you know Rumi? It’s okay if you don’t. He did live about eight hundred years ago. I don’t know much about him either, but as Anne of Green Gables would say, I think he was a kindred spirit. In modern terms, he was someone who got it. The man understood love.
Near the end you saw rose and thorn together,
Evening and morning light commingling.
You have broken many shapes and stirred
their colors into the mud.
Now you sit in a garden not doing a thing,
Smiling. You have felt the ache
and confusion of a hangover, yet
you take again the wine that’s handed you.
Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,
Absentminded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly.
Let the lover be.