Through A Very Excruciating Process Called Writing.

As I search for a reason to write this, the only thing I find is Iam creating a collection of memoirs, unseen and unknown, but in existence, perfectly compiled in memory of life. Almost poetic in itself. I take a small break from this hell I force myself to stay in, to write this. The hell here, I call is the writing process, that is exhausting and crucuiating than I ever imagined. But if a person is willing to go through this process, because they see in themselves a small spark, that pushes them, I often find that the reason is that they cannot let things be. They need Every story to be finished, and every day the story is left unfinished, sleep just doesn’t happen. This need for a sense of ending fucks things over to a point when the mind becomes an extremely dark place to write from, and we are stuck in that foggy space, unable to keep writing nor give it up. Its like being pulled by two different black holes. But the question that haunts me after a long night, around three A.M, is why. Why all of this. Why does one go this process that demands from you everything you are. I can say I lost me in these months, being someone who iam not just to keep going on this process. I have put myself in situations and twisted my life in a path that helps my story and makes it beautiful but it is just that I read the papers that fill my room, with a sense of satisfaction that iam looking at something so beautiful, even if I made my life the opposite. Sometimes this sense of satisfaction and contentment is the only thing that lets me sleep, but on other nights, it is the very thing that keeps me awake, asking me, “Why?, Why?, Why?”. how can you shut your mind from the questions the mind asks?. now, back to the reason for everything, I find that it is inevitable that such a person with such an ego and a vision, and a dream beyond what her capacity would allow, has to go through everything to reach the end: a completed work, because it is not easy. It is inevitably a selfish craft at the end of the day and there is no other way it can exist. If a writer can sit through hours upon hours of writing, and editing it over and over again, perfecting the sculpture, what does it tell about that person? He is committed enough to not give up the completion of the story and gives himself up in the process, because this ego has to be satisfied, and some people cannot grasp or survive something ending in the middle. It does take a certain level of sickness to write something with such an unmoving commitment to creation. Now that I have found my own reasons of having no reasons, I pore through the half finished work of almost 250 pages and 75,000 words, that has taken every inch of commitment and pushing myself to write is just half finished and I sit there in my room, with no reason to finish, except a single reason that I just cannot leave something unfinished. I cannot believe for a moment I had enough commitment to stick to writing so much, and all of that readable too. But yes, I always have been a responsible and committed person. And I wonder if it is worth all the pain. Yes and no. Though I can also tell that unfinished things are beautiful, they just don’t let you sleep. And to what end does this serve, I guess even if it never gets published, all it will give me is the sense of satisfaction, even when iam old. So, here the craft is done for what is gives us at the end of the day and not for its sake. All this art is just for me, not another single soul. The way you can create art for others is living it, not creating it. Because, if the world could change, or even one person could change by the art they see, it is absolutely worth it. Through the hundreds of films I pour through, all that can be felt is the exhaustion and gripping sense of overwhelming catharsis. All that has to be done and given to the field has been done. Creating more and more of unoriginal art out of what already exists is depressing and just dilutes its intent. In today’s world man has to worry about survival more than art. Here, again, the only way to create art and touch lives is by being one, touching them with love. Maybe this realization was the point I could justify myself giving up a long time dream of filmmaking. Maybe I never really had it in me. But when it comes to writing a long 400 page novel that I can drown myself in, as I have in the past two months, I keep pushing on, through this mad search for reason and the gripping fear that asks me, ‘can you even publish it’. I just soothe it by telling it that I will try my best. There might be a day, when I leave my attachment to that too. But the one thing I have learnt is, all this cannot be called giving up. It is just letting go. And when I see the filmmakers and writers I admire leave the craft for their own reason, I just see my reasons more clearly. Not all artists are really artists and most things that float around are audiovisual junk that depresses you. I haven’t seen a movie in more than a month because of this. Seeing the millions of film analysts who analyse a movie socially makes me so sick at the thought that how can someone make a personal experience a public affair.amongst the million people who make junk for art, chances are that real art will never be appreciated. But when one door closes, the other opens. This is the point where you begin to think of what this life is going to be and how you are gonna survive it. I would never opt for a career or a job, because that is not me. But everything I need at the end of the day is a peaceful place to live in, hopefully beautiful, food to eat, and a lot of time in my hand. Essentially a peaceful silent life. i have grown past needing adventures. I thought the only thing that could give me that is writing. But now, I see clearly the art of farming. The art of working with nature. That is all. Perfectly self sufficient lifestyle.

To the artists, I can only ask a question. Why do you smoke it and for whom. And at what cost. Let it all be personal and selfish. And not everyone has to create art. Nobody has to be anything. They not only don't have to be what the society asks of them, they don't need to be what they ask of themselves. Nobody has to be defined by themselves bad live a live that they define for themselves, creating a self imposed pattern or rules or characters that we fix for ourselves and live by it. We are not obligated to ourselves to do that.