I’m always anguished in front of a blank page. The fear that I will not fill in the space, or worse, that I will fill it in with a broad range of nonsense takes hold of me with every letter of the keyboard on which I press my fingertips. Despite the inner urge to write which I almost perceive as a physical necessity, it has never really been clear to me how to efficiently associate the will with the practicality. Writing has a dodgy and perverted side, in many ways. First, you always give some sort of information about who you are, how you could potentially feel, think, function, which allows people to pass judgments on your personality. You can obviously fictionalise, but the style inevitably gives away puzzle-pieces of you. There’s exposure. One is partially stripped off. It’s letting your impulses out. But then again, writing is also manipulation, of words, of ideas, it’s transposition and game, it’s the pleasure of wanting to say it all and then trying to hold it all back. It’s fast forward and control. It’s discipline for how much you want to contain, while dying to share anyway. It’s about mediating the battle between the data processing and how it can eventually be expressed.
The desire to write encloses a lot of self-incomprehension and an equal share of self-acknowledgement. Starring at an empty page might feel like carefully placing your bare feet closer to an edge from which you choose to jump. Looking down, measuring the height below and the degree of your craziness, the breathing ceases to be an automatic task that the body performes. It takes shape and becomes an inner voice, of which you grow aware. In the getting-ready-to-jump position, some senses atrophy, vanish somewhere inside, while others emerge so acutely to replace them. One might even close one’s eyes to feel the drumming energy that claims the self and drags it into the abyss. Same as in a free fall, the adrenalin does not stop seconds after the feet have taken off the ground. It grows even stronger with every new idea that takes over the blank that was before, with the discovery that words can have a life of their own and can give birth to significance, when put in the right order.
Writing can lead one to trespass some of the most conflicting feelings, from the lowlands of fear, shame, doubt, to the heights of pride and blooming self-confidence. In between there’s determination and exhaustion. How many actions can make one feel indeed so alive and assertive? How many can challenge one with the inner self and lead to so much self-discovery one can never describe in words? Writing is a mirror of oneself, and a reflection of oneself in the others’ eyes. Writing is passion and taking the risk of being oneself. What other sweet delirium?