Didn’t write for what—how many days? Three or four or maybe more; did not keep track, of course, was too busy living. Made several notes here and there and forgot about them until I sat at the desk.
The process is easy. I refuse to believe it begins somewhere or ends somewhere. It starts when you feel something enough to put it down and ends when you write the last word, but when would I ever write it? There is always something more to write after you are done writing. There are more pieces I have not written than the ones I finish, and many I have left midway kept like dough kept in the corner to ferment and rest. I think every person must live first before they tell a story. Living always comes first—documenting it, sharing it comes later. Many befuddle it and have it the other way around. I pity them.
Yesterday, I took a nap on the plane because the sky was too bright, the clouds too white, and I was too tired to look out and bear it all, and a sentence came to me: no matter who you are and where you come from, there will be some struggle, and in the end, only you will know it. It will be your weight to lift, your cross to bear, and as much as telling others is an option, you will never find the words or the opportunity—which is often more critical. If you have ever tried confessing your unending love for someone, you know the struggle of finding them at the right moment and by themselves, which is, again, more important. People are rarely alone anyway. Their thoughts, regrets, and other badges and patches of time and worry travel with them. But that is not the topic at hand; my digressive roundabout ways of saying things get on my nerves as much as they do others, sometimes. The case is that no matter who you are, you will struggle with something. This is, of course, an obvious realisation about yourself. Ask anyone on the street if they have ever struggled, and they will tell you: naturally.
But this is not as obvious when you think of others, and it is the more difficult thing to admit: as much as I have struggled, others have, too, in things they don’t tell me, especially in them, like all I refuse to mention even when given a chance, or a thousand.