Title: A view from the shattered window/silhouette
A camera is used to capture pictures.
That’s what it was made for. Every picture tells a story. If a picture,
something that mankind had created could voice remarkable stories, what about
me? I am a complex machine with feelings, genuine feelings. I churn anger,
blues, happiness, love, affection, jealousy, greed and whatnot in this tiny
four chambered inn called heart. Having said that, without a doubt, I can
easily keep up with the amazing stories a picture portrays although it is not
the best rival I have. I can’t let a machine win and get all the credit. But
then of course, I need a way. I need a plan. The time just came perfectly when I
discovered something bizarre or we could say, incredible about myself. I can
connect to almost anything in this world when I have a pen and a paper. These two
magical objects manoeuvre me to a world beyond my slightest imagination and I
finally have found my way of telling a story.
My work is simple. I just arrange
words like musical notes and they just blossom into a beautiful complete
symphony at the end of the day. Frankly speaking, I lied about my work being
simple. It is simple when I am not obligated to do it. In my defence, nobody
likes being tied down to something. Mark
this; I just said it wasn’t that simple. I never said I didn’t like it. In
fact, I love what I am doing. Writing is a big part of my tiny little haunted
rendezvous entitled life. In this setting, writing is the door to a haunted
rendezvous with a shattered window, or should I say, an escape plan from the
tormenting reality. I never liked the reality. Mark this again, I just said I
never liked the reality but I never said that I was never grateful with what I
have. I am indeed grateful with every single joy or grieve I have but I can’t
help myself from falling in love with the idea of being a fugitive in another horizon.
I find it enticing of having the power to control lives and be whoever you
want. I am certain that I have mentioned that writing is my way of telling
stories and in this scenario, my hunger fits perfectly to my job. The moment
when I push the pen to the paper, the ink is the witness to my absconding from
the reality. I can be whoever I want, wherever I want and hail from any
background I wish for. Characters are projections from my sub-conscious
reality. They can be related to me or be complete strangers. It gets more
fascinating when I can indulge myself with first-class corporate extravagant
lifestyle and be a well-respected citizen or a tourist to places that don’t
even exist when in reality; I am nothing more than an 18 year old girl, stuck
in her room, waiting for an admission letter from the university.
Now I can guarantee
that the characters or the projections of my alter ego have electrifying lives
for the better or worse than my actual one. It should be taken into account
that writing too, is another form of communication. I can touch one’s soul with
a phrase. It’s very dominant. I can even change people’s lives with my writing
and that’s certainly in my to-do list before anyone reads me the eulogy. I want
to open a door to the world and perspectives I generated. I am the captain of
the ship. If it’s called insanity, then be it. I don’t mind, as long as I can
convey certain messages. The problem of being a writer is that you will always
have people to criticize every single way and the comments can be very
offensive sometimes. Over these years being a budding
writer and an amateur who I still am, it sure does get hard when people always
make me wear different tags on my personality. I was always the dark, weird,
eccentric and delusional teen because I made a mistake of expressing my
emotions, thoughts and passion in a different way.
Please take a note that it was indeed the best mistake I ever made because
I would never be half of the strong figure I present myself today if I haven’t
done that. Growing up and building up a personality with constant preying
pejorative eyes always made me feel like a soldier combating in a pointless
endless war. But now it’s not about me anymore. This is not about me struggling
my high school years or dealing with annoying teenage dramas. I am not the
heroin in this story. I am not the diva with my life under spotlight no more.
Yesterday I might be a petrified loner, but today I am so much more than that.
I am a writer. I write because I want to tell stories. I write because like
Leonardo da Vinci, I want to paint my own Mona Lisa. I want to create a
masterpiece that could be remembered and talked about for ages. I write because
I don’t care about what people might think because I literally have grown out
of it. I write because I want to spread some hope to the desperados to survive
in this cruel blind world. I write because I have a towering ego that won’t
simply just bow down to mistreatments, bias, and unreasonable rules. I have to
be honest that I was never fond of the idea of pretending that I was born with
a defect, precisely, being blind about all the chaos and mess around me when
the world is dying. I write so people could see a different view for a second,
from a shattered window. I am giving them a private tour to my brain. How
wonderful is that? They don’t need to go to mind readers or psychics to know
what’s on my mind. Finally, like I have mentioned earlier, I write because it’s
an escape. It is my bitter-sweet escape.
