a view from the shattered window

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.