A Rant on Writing, or I Have Too Many Random Thoughts

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.



Of Labels, Love, and Lyrics


Labels: The girl who was top of her class. The girl who likes to get high. The boy who was the captain of the football team. The boy who cheated on his girlfriend. The girl who fell in love with the wrong boy. The boy who refused to let his first love go. The boy who loved her enough to let her go. The girl who didn’t care about anything. The overweight girl. The boy who likes to cook, not play. The girl who went all the way.

All these labels.  All of these boys and girls. We think they can be summed up in a line, that those are their identities. Teenagers, no one judges us more than we judge each other. We see each other in black and white. He’s good, she’s bad. We forget we are not one-dimensional. I myself plead guilty to all of these crimes. To all of those boys and girls I have judged, I would like to convey my heartfelt apologies. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

If you think about it, we’re all a little bad inside, aren’t we? We all get our kicks from different places. Some of us indulge in alcohol and weed, some like to read bad poetry and fall in love with all the wrong people. Some like to believe that they haven’t had a bad urge in their lives, but we all know they’re just lying to themselves. I used to think that if I followed the rules, it’d be okay. I would do as society expects me to do, and live the life all parents want for their children and I would be happy. Now I smile with amusement at my own naivety.

I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I am an eighteen year old with over ambitious dreams and a love for words, and lyrics, and all the beauty that comes with it. There, that’s my label for myself. That’s the label I choose. I think too much, feel things more strongly than necessary, and love without reserve. I choose to make my own mistakes, to make my own path. I am not about my SAT scores, my extra curricular activities, my shoes or my hair. I’m not even about my family, or my friends, or the boys I’ve loved. None of those things could possibly ever define me. Same as none of those things could ever define you.

I’m eighteen and so, so hopeful. I believe in magic, maybe not the fairy godmother kind, but the other kind. The kind where extraordinary things happen every day because we all wear rose-tinted glasses all the time. When silver linings are all that we see, when the glass is always half full. Hell, sometimes it’s even completely full.

My purpose for writing this? None, really. I don’t kid myself into thinking I am a writer, because I’m not. Nor do I believe my thoughts are unique and immensely important. All of us, I believe, have realized these very things at some point. Maybe it was when you were lighting that cigarette and your mother’s face came to your mind, but you chose to ignore it. Maybe it was when you gave into the worldly desires that you’d been warned against. This, right now, is my little admission of realization. Instead of an urge to fight against it, all I feel is this amazing feeling of comradeship. There’s so many of us. So many of us making mistakes and doing the opposite of what we should and following our hearts.