I have many friends who write very well, and I earnestly read their words. Over time, I have realised though, that my friends write about a lot of interesting and curious things that I have never considered for my blog.
They write about topics that really matter, like Syrian rebels or the Russian government. I have read intellectual views on political agendas and genetically modified organisms. People who write about problems like chemical warfare and global warming and criticise industrialization of healthcare in developing countries.
People are out there, addressing worries of the bleak reality we are facing and I am here, trapped in my bubble of pink, writing about unicorns and star dust in the wake of nuclear weapons and women rights. My blogs are just a beautiful collection of words, without meaning or result. They feel good to read and maybe they cause a flutter of your heart once a while. But they don’t hold significance on the earth we know.
In a world where racism and cancer are easier to find than a good library, my words about the meteors in your eyes or the loneliness rising like a volcano from the pit of my stomach, feel trivial. As an able citizen of this world,, Ishould be concerned about the magnetic waves around the Bermuda triangle and the lack of menstrual hygiene in African countries. Instead, I worry about the fondness of the waves on an ocean deeper than my existence.
I wonder if it makes me a selfish person if I enjoy describing how my mother’s laugh reminds me of a choir in a church on Christmas eve, more than the Olympic games. I wonder if it’s vain to afford the idea of painting the sky green greater importance than the cases of medical negligence in my city. I am guilty of decorating words over a string of meaningless metaphors about the sound of rain on my window sill.
I should probably invest in writing about things that matter, as they call it, but I don’t want to force words out of my lungs in long ragged breaths. I want them to flow out of my veins like ink from my pen and bask in the radiance they bestow upon my mind. I don’t want to express opinions when I don’t have any, or view this world through the glasses of a common man, too sane to acknowledge butterflies. Maybe this is my refusal to accept our flawed world or a denial of existentialism. Maybe it is my unwillingness to let go of the roar of the ocean or the way a cathedral makes my heart swoon.
I am not sure if this is immaturity or defiance or contempt, even. What I know is this: I have always preferred microscopes over telescopes, smiles over science fiction and I guess this is how it will be.