on writing

I always am intrigued in the way writers present their ideas in a form everyone could relate to – whatever the topic may be, from instructions on a cookbook, to an expert technical journal about the theory of everything. Why am I asking that? Well, that is – I am being tasked to write an essay about how the 8 Streams of Confluent Learning affect me as a functional module of our interactive society. I have no idea on how to write it. Writers compose their literature with the notion of expressing themselves – to inform the other consciousness using defined, learned methods of expression with artistic or academic worth. To suggest an answer to a proposed argument – in a way that would exhibit response from the audience and capture that a confirmation to an answer you have presented in your masterpiece.

By no means, I am no writer – I prefer myself to be labelled as a narrator – a narrator whose goal is not to inform, but to mystify. Dislodged, words, scattered irresponsibly on type, there was never a fundamental pattern in my messages. I never liked the idea that writing should be formal; structured – hence, I take myself not as one. To note, since I have the freedom of saying whatever I want here, I will have to do it my way.

With that in mind, I asked myself a question. In the same sense, regardless of my personal preference, why are we writing? One answer is that, writing, is a fundamental aspect of communication. It is only secondary to speech – of which both are ways of expression; a method of ascertaining existence. It might be that I have answered the question already, but I am still uncertain about it. As with uncertainty, I am with complete assurance that it is also an avenue for self-satisfaction. That is the reason why I am writing. I want to satisfy my inexplicable endearment of painting the literary canvas with my cerebral paintbrush. It has come to me that I had the disappointment that I should have put my career as a poet, nevertheless, I couldn’t be too happy at where I am right now. In the end, I still have the freedom to narrate my inner thoughts.

Freedom. This might be the other reason why we write. In text, boundless universes are created, limitless dreams, dazzling color arrays, unfathomable possibilities exist. Writing is a window to an expanded reality – an extension of the physical realm. A play where the director can be the actor himself – orchestrating the most beautiful of symphonies and executing the most emotional of climaxes. But, what about the un-self?

I can affirm another reason as to why I am writing. There is this, innate need of others. The unfaltering need to be recognized. Again, the need to reaffirm the self-existence. Yes. The readers. You don’t have to understand, but I know, at least, that this piece had been seen, if not remembered. That is enough for me to create pieces that reaffirm my attachment to living – a concrete proof of my humanity.

In conclusion – as I would like to say, but I don’t think I have to. Writing is only a window to an expanded reality – I should have to look inside, behind the window to be able to confirm if I have answered anything at all. I would have to peek at the window sometime again when I have found more answers to a question that I didn’t have to ask.




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