Tuesday, 7 September 2010

We Write...

I write. I began writing to get the pain out of me when it began to hurt too much. The writing helped. The angst finds a release thus calming down an inner restlessness that plagues my psyche in that moment. Reading the aftermath of my intensity poured out into the form of letters, spaces, punctuation rules, and their kind has helped me to varying degrees. This has been my therapy, a cathartic effect encases my being irrespective of whether anyone else stops by to see what has taken form or not. I pen it down [or as it'd be more apt to say these days - type it down] and save it somewhere in the memory bank of the web world. I call them, my words that is, my voice as it, that is my voice seldom actually gets to speak. Is it for the lack of vocal chords? Heck, no! It has rarely ever found any company to speak with/in. Sharing that encapsulates within it a conversation, has been something that my reality has mostly been in desperate shortage of. It found its audience, temporary and transient albeit, in a virtual world for some moments of time. The confusion that my words sometimes rouse in the minds of others, has not been discouraging for not everyone is meant to understand the havoc inside my being nor are everyone so important to me. When my voice does strike a chord with someone, my heart finds a tiny amount of solace in knowing that someone out there exists, who is capable of understanding what I feel, but then on a simultaneous plain it feels a pain for that soul too, because if it understands me then it perhaps has lived a pain of its own to draw in on to be able to empathise. I realise that my voice is often sad, sometimes in pain, at other times sordidly lonely, or simply a mix of all these commonly coined as -negative- emotions. But my voice does, in its own little way on rare moments, manage to embrace happy moments and recognise blessings around it (Alhumdulillah). With time passing and years to validate ongoing experiences, this voice of mine has found a person within it, who is relatively new in comparison to whom it was otherwise familiar with in the past; someone far more confident and sure of herself. I therefore began to find peace in my being. Then, smack out of the blue, I discovered a familiar strain in the voice of my baby sister who had also begun writing. Something behind the words that I read reminded me of pains that I had managed to put to sleep in my own world of today. Their reminder began to come alive in her voice, opening up a whole new chest of worry inside me wishing to tap into the soul of this new voice that was dribbling away all kinds of emotions wrapped up in rhythmic mysteries. I was emphatically tempted to try and dip deeper into her being, in hopes of being able to find out what it was that was feeding fodder to her verses. Alas, I became a reader who had to start interpreting the words of a baby sister who has begun to spin her own little tales of pain [or confusing happiness perchance?]. I could only hope her pain was not too lasting, and that she would be equipped with enough strengths from her life to surge through her battles unscathed. Knowing all that I do from my life's lessons up to now, I would be deluding myself if I actually believed that she would have no resulting scars, but my faint heart [as it often becomes when it comes to matters pertaining my baby sisters] would like to think she is untouched and safe. Truth be told, an even younger voice has begun straining itself into verses of mystery. In earlier days I used to think it was just because it wanted to be like the older voices, but sneak peaks into her little world show signs of new stories being etched. I can only hope these voices that I hold so dear to my being will not be steered by pain or loss, rather be beautiful and strong pieces, free of burdens heavily borne. I find something painfully sweet for now in knowing that my sister is a poet, who has another sister traipsing not too far along behind her. They're nothing alike... Yet something binds all our voices together in a surreal mystical world of words, rhymes and history; where voices linger in space, waiting to find home in the souls of others like them.


TRT said...

Beautifully written. But can a sword be forged without passing through fire, or a flute be made without suffering the cut of knife on reed?

Hayaah said...

Thanx oh so much! :)

And indeed no, which is why I remind myself that I would be delusional if I thought otherwise and thus, it is 'painfully' sweet to live with this knowledge.

Sanaa said...

I like writing - and it's mostly "confusing happiness perchance" as you put it, worry not your heart dear sister! This soul is strong Alhamdullilah! <3

Hayaah said...

The last line got me all misty eyed again O_O
Good to know my little one!