“Keep Writing”

Simple physical tasks that require little to no thought aren’t distracting; in fact, as some studies show, doing mindless tasks can actually boost your level of creativity and innovation.

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Yes, I read these lines in an online article. I have a habit of saving random lines I read online and in books. Out of 150 drafts in my Gmail account, 100 are random lines, proverbs, and quotations that become words of wisdom eventually in the story of my life. Somewhere along this journey of making life worth telling over get-togethers with people I hardly ever meet, I gave up on what had actually brought me back to life. My writing. My words, My stories, My voice. My enthusiasm for weaving words into poems and stories. This is what had brought me joy when I had fallen so deep into the dark hole where nothing was visible. No voice reached me but my own slow and uneven breaths. One at a time, it reminded me how much more life I still had. And that either I could continue to stand in the filth, in the stench of everything that had gone wrong, or I could try. Try to find a way to be anywhere but here. But this time, on my own. I know that sounds like fake pride. But I was exhausted from listening to people who knew nothing about my life yet had so much to preach.

My painful, anxiety-driven life was no one else’s to fix but my own—a life where I did not know how to pause and rest. I only understood that my worth was in doing everything for everyone. Sitting down to read a book and serving leftovers for dinner were never the options. Okay, now I am simplifying the struggles. Cooking regular meals wasn’t the challenge. Telling myself that I wasn’t worth anything else was what I was trying to unlearn.  

And so I started the exhausting climb out of the hole. The slippery, wet mud covered in vines that poked and grew stronger with me reminded me of how long it had been. How long I had stayed where I did not belong? How long had it been since I last liked myself? How long I had let the noise around me consume my voice?

A persistent gnawing in my gut told me I wasn’t meant to stop here—there was more to me than this. The real challenge was silencing that inner voice insisting I was nothing more than my struggles—and I was finally ready to take it on. So today, I decided to write again. For no one else, but for the girl I never hugged tight enough because she did not fit the mold she was expected to fit into. She was funny and smart, maybe even pretty. I hear her laugh now and then, and wonder if that girl ever laughed enough.

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Life is in the mundane tasks, the ones that used to hurt my soul, reminding me of my mediocrity and unsuccessful story. I found my voice, my poems, my real stories in the tasks that are no challenge. I learned about the girl who loved bike rides because that was the only time she was truly herself, without any duties or expectations holding her back. I started the journey of self-awareness with one small breath at a time. I am a writer who believes there is a poem in everything around me. There is a hidden story even when I am cleaning the bookshelf after a long day, just so I can hold those old books again. I write poems about everything and anything. There is inspiration everywhere.

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Swimming yet drowning

Filthy and weathered

My body is long gone

Hoping without trying,

For rescue to come by.

Finally she remembered

Unarmed and naked

She figured out how to fight.

Till the last breath

Or until the knee bent.

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