Writing Is Acrimonious
Writing is lazy. Writing is acrimonious (I don’t know why I typed that word up, it’s an adjective that just popped up. But I presume my brain relates with that word ‘something’ (a cognitive meaning: maybe an experience or some sort of general association) it is relating right now to ‘writing’. So I am going to look-up the official Oxford meaning and try to understand what’s going on.)
acrimonious
adjective(typically of speech or discussion) angry and bitter.
synonyms:
bitter, rancorous, caustic, acerbic, scathing, sarcastic, acid, harsh, sharp, razor-edged, cutting, astringent, trenchant, mordant, virulent
That’s surprising.
I am genuinely amazed at why my brain, my inner conscience would think like that. If anything, I absolutely enjoy writing. I’m no mug at literature. I have actually amassed quite a rich set of literary experience for myself per se.
It maybe because I can relate violence with the turbulation generated inside oneself while trying to organize and channelize a wide array of emotions, thoughts, ideas and downright blasphemies into a coherent stream of human recognizable words. That whole art is called articulation and writing is articulation with a non-existent audience. That in turn, can quickly morph into an articulation with a meta-existent self-audience. Just like how the last line makes complete sense to me but might be a poorly-crafted sequence of words to anyone reading it.
I can also comprehend the acerbic association. I’ve always inclined towards scathing critiques of whatever happenings in wherever place in whenever times. I enjoy writings with a sharp prose, a dull sense of humor perhaps, or even those with a dry, brazen reflectory tone to them. I do not claim to be a Shakespearean scholar or a master of literary articulation, but good writings have almost an underlying soul to them. A soul I claim not to understand, but merely to experience.
As I type this out, I peek past my window and it is one of those orangy evenings. When the dying sunlight breathes-out with a final stroke of streaky saffron beam across the horizon. It is an evening almost filled with a calming, peaceful balm that has been referenced so many times in prose and poetry, that I can almost always recall some passage from some piece which might play out in all it’s glory on these evenings.
I use the word ‘writings’ to denote all the zillions of books, articles, clippings, paragraphs I have come across in my entire life. I refer to their collective entity; an entity that has had, without doubt, a profound effect on shaping my conscious vision.
Writings beget writing. Or rather, Reading writings begets writing.
Name a ‘writer’ who did not read.
This whole genesis of writing due to reading others’ writings, often generates an inner debt to stay in accordance or discordance to the collective crux of the multiple writings one comes across. It is this debt, this weight of owing-up to the standards, is what makes writing a fierce exercise. It is a constant war, waged between ideals and opinions. A struggle between beliefs and facts.
But the truth is, one can never write facts. Only opinions. The reader is the manifestation of a writing. He can either imbibe the writing as a fact, or as an opinion.
The sun has finally settled down behind the shrouded mystic of the night. The stars gleam, the moon beckons, the darkness feeds the serenity.
I think I know why writing might seem acrimonious. It is an exploration, a peek into one’s inner dwellings, a journey through one’s conscience, a thorough cleansing from within; and hence unsurprisingly, it might feel like an extremely bitter and nauseatic exercise to anyone not regularly used to it.
But nonetheless, writing is an extremely fruitful and rewarding endeavor, one that might spiral you out of senses, or lead you through a sweeping calm. It might be a fuzzy commotion or a smooth harmony, but writing is always and always something that enriches.
An so this ends. I don’t really know if this is the end or a mere break, but conclusions are always tough. And anyways, it is still way too early for one . . .