All writing in all forms is a question: do you feel this, too? All writing is a dance. It’s all a coordinated movement between the writer and the reader. There has to be a dash of entertainment in it to make it worth the reader’s time, but it is really all about the question. And of course, the more familiar an emotion, the more people engage with the words describing it. All writing in all forms is a plea: I hope I’m not the only one.
There were different kinds of writers. Some needed a novelty of experience. They were probably the good ones who could channel new thoughts, fresh ideas, visions for the future, and most importantly, ask new questions. Some were dreamers. They created fantastical worlds, their only question being: do you want to run away, too? To escape was their strongest desire, and to help others do the same, was the highest reward. Then, there were those like me; we did not have anything new to offer. We were champions of the everyday, the commonplace, the mundane. We wrote about what interested us—nothing interested me.
There was only a mild intrigue about everything coursing through our veins. We asked questions, sure, but not those which changed the world. We only had questions to make sense of the tedium. Our first question was often: is this all there is to it? And before anyone could answer, we immediately followed it up with a remark: we must learn to live with it. Our novelty was spread between the cracks of the daily drudgery, and our escapism only offered us a moment of respite. When all was said and done, we were as unnoticeable as those lost in crowds.
We were all asking the same question: do you feel alone, too?