“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”
― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
Why do you write? A question that I anticipated to knock on my doors any fine spectacular day, because my story- even though will side-track hither and thither occasionally- is one that I have stored in me long enough and today I might just take the risk of writing it here. Yes, light controversies and brutal honesty coming your way.
It started out when I was 12, during the pandemic. Poetry, literature and language had not quite particularly been my fancies for the longest time back then. The lockdown had a major shift in my perception and my personality. Even though I had not set about with substantial knowledge in writing poetry, it gave me an immense amount of joy and contentment to have written something impressive that was liked by the people around me who mattered. But, what I had confused myself with was my passion and my frantic quest for productivity during leisure times. Albeit, dance and music had been two crucial hobbies of mine that I pursued with great interest, I hadn’t quite fathomed yet what I was truly passionate about. Poetry came as a bolt from the blue. On perusing a certain yearly newsletter that used to be published in my middle school, it was a pang in the heart to have not seen my poem published that year round. Why did that hurt me so much? I didn’t know, when writing was only a side hobby, in fact, much less a hobby rather than a piece of something productive to keep me busy. Did it hurt my ego? Perhaps, yes. I think as and when I started out with poetry, I did it much for validation- to be labelled as eloquent, articulate, well-versed, and all the ego-boosters that my conscience knew all too well I didn’t need but, amateurly, wanted. However, having seen my poem published in the next newsletter that had been issued, the proud feeling of accomplishment was… new. To witness a poem that encompassed snippets of my experience during lockdown, written with my creativity and imagination- much of a vent poem- given credit filled me with ample gratitude- once again, a feeling that was very new to me.
But the search for validation persisted. By and by, on being encouraged by my teachers and peers to write more and enhance my skills, I decided to establish an Instagram account to showcase all of my writeups… this being one of the biggest mistakes I ever made. What might follow from here might come off as controversial but my opinion is not an endorsement for anybody reading this.
I started out young; a bit too young on Instagram. Nevertheless, I wanted a platform, if at the very least, to showcase my talent. However, what followed in due course was addiction: Addiction to validation, addiction to flattery, addiction to the app, and with time, resentment towards criticism. What I thought was my passion was not. Yet, did I enjoy writing? Absolutely! I had the capability and I had broadened my horizons enough to keep honing my skills. In fact, I started basing my entire personality on my poetry. Eventually, I realized that my sole purpose wasn’t one that ideally should be. My thought process was unhealthy and could have been detrimental for me in the long haul. Now as I realize, every single time my mother reminded me of the amount of time I spent on my phone reading heart-warming comments and her reiteration of the smugness of an attitude that I might develop by and by which ultimately will turn my so-called passion and talent to one that used-to-be, I will remember for the rest of my life. I don’t feel the contempt anymore that I had felt when my Instagram account was hacked and therefore, for which, I lost my access to it. I think if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have been writing this veracious blog post here. This taught me one of my biggest lessons in life, “If you love something dearly, ask yourself, ‘Why?’” On a better note, Instagram taught me a lot about writing. I discovered the most inhumanely talented writing community on the social website to which I dedicate most of the knowledge that I possess about modern writing- so much about the current world, so much about life, so much about literature- it was a vast ocean of the deepest and integral thoughts.
As I continued with my writing, I realized that I had gradually opened up bit by bit. I had invariably undertaken fictitious scenarios to work upon, again to expand my reach and validation, but by and by I started to pen down an essence of my emotions in my poetry as well. I haven’t been quite articulate in expressing myself in a conversation until I have had the opportunity to pen it down; and I do it best with poetic devices. There is so much on my mind all the time- so much to convey, so much to work upon, so much to dream. But, it’s true altogether, that one cannot make everybody think and feel as deeply as they do. It does hurt to know that you might understand people but they might not. As I have almost always tried to blend in an environment wherein, I have had to spur my practicalities and logics into action, somewhere down the line I have the tendency to lose a bit of my literary headspace. I don’t blame the subject neither the people but rather the irksome switch that I experience at times when I sit down to do something creative. Oftentimes, it’s writer’s block but most of the time it’s the hint of embarrassment that comes along as and when I extensively ponder over frivolous or ignorant comments about expression through literature, on a day-to-day basis. Time and again, I have sought to be understood for- as much as I might sensitize myself while I say this- I am not an open book. I am in fact, a W.B. Yeats poem varnished and engulfed in undertones. I want to be understood not because I want to have someone with whom I can enjoy talking to but because I want to learn to be open. I want to learn that there could be another human who might delve into the depths of the bare minimum and bring out the beauty from within.
We live in a world of superficiality. That is a tragedy per se. I could form a part of the smallest ratio of the youth in the world that looks beyond the technical facets of society but, I might as well do my part. So yes, I write. I write because I want to be understood and because I want to make everyone understand the importance of understanding.
I think somewhere, deep inside of all of us, we want to be understood, so why not try to understand the intricacies of understanding first?
~ Riddhi Chakraborty
Swan's Labyrinth 