#findingwords

7/11/18

I’m finding the right words to describe how I feel about you. Finding words that cannot be described. Finding words that doesn’t exist. Finding words that no one can understand.

The pen can understand how incomparable the ink is but it cannot write anything on the paper. No one in the world can see how i’m feeling. All they know is that this feeling is relevant. Ceterus Paribus! The pen just want to write but no exact words can narrate what is going on inside. Just like the ink inside the pen, the pen serves as the fortress of the ink. Baby, i’m at my comfort zone trying to come out with exact words. “To write is very easy” that statement is definitely wrong for someone who is crazy about you.

Writing is a slippery beast. A puzzle of sorts, where these words go together but perhaps don’t fit well together, or these others create magic while those just fail miserably to convey the right idea or sensation or experience.

It is beautiful and wonderful and so effing frustrating at the same time. I’m drafting and I’m putting words on a page, and I know--I know--the words are ugly and clunky and heavy, without panache or the subtle arts that good writing has. But I keep putting that one word down and then another and another after that because I can make them better later when I hit the editing phases. I hope.

God, it’s a slow, agonizing process sometimes that makes me want to avoid my computer screen, to side-eye it from the kitchen or the living room where I am doing everything but spending time with those ugly, malformed words. They are monstrous when they are new.

I think over the last few years this is something I have grown into--the waiting, the being patient, the being fine with imperfection. Sitting with something imperfect is uncomfortable. And I’m learning to be okay with that discomfort because it drives me to be better, to push myself, to challenge my words and my ideas to be more. Truth, though: Sometimes I don’t want to be more. Sometimes I want to be lazy.