Words Grasping for the Sun

When I can’t write, it’s not because I have nothing to say. It’s because at my fingertips there is the possibility of everything, and all at once it feels overwhelming.

Justice. How do I rightfully render the thoughts that inhabit my cortex? What right have I earned to think that I can faithfully write about them? I fear misrepresenting my mental constituents, and lock them up at home instead.

The words, they’re in a fight. Who gets to be on the page, and who gets left out? There is no obvious right answer. The words grasp for the sun, pushing each other down to make it into the overworld. A sad sort of Nash equilibrium end state of what could’ve been a playground -- if only the words had figured out they could get in a queue and take turns instead of squabbling and punching down!

Why is it so hard to decide what to write? Fear is the mindkiller. Fear that I am out of the magic sauce, the je ne sais quoi, that my best essays are behind me. Fear that I am being indulgent with writing prose, that my time would be better spent writing code, so that I may move the levers of society and write my will into its fabric. Above all, fear of learning that I could have been writing like this all along, nothing was ever stopping me, except for this one: that I had been holding back my words for no reason. This meta-fear or shame is the most damning of them all.

I could’ve planted that tree ten years ago! Tazik, this is not your last year. There will be another 10 years. Time is acausal, but you can influence the future. You can shape it however you will. That is what the now is about.

Herbert did not suggest that fear is the only mind-killer. There are others. She has a twin sister - her name is shame. She sits on my shoulder, recoiling at every wrong turn. She means no harm. But I feel that she cares too much about the momentary, fleeting opinions of nameless others, wisps of judgement that disperse as quickly as they gathered.

I’m not afraid of shame. Or her mother, guilt, for that matter. This is what Gautama learned, and sat under the tree for 49 days to impress into our minds. Now I remember. Feeling guilty is not a virtue. Torturing yourself mentally won’t heal anyone else. Newton’s 3rd Law did not postulate this.

I can feel it happening again. My mind yearns to be free. I’m seeing visions again. It feels pretentious, but I won’t let shame take custody of yet another sentence. If my stream-of-consciousness bothers any readers, they are more than welcome to unsubscribe. But if it reminds another soul of their inner riches and sets them free, it will have been worth it.

This was fun to write. I’m going to challenge myself to write more regularly. It’s a good idea to have an ethos, something to cohere all the articles together. Mine is simple: I must liberate my drafts folder.