Noises of your past makes it very difficult for you to hear the symphonies of the future.
It’s kind of both weird and exciting to start my own blog. Weird as blogs have existed since I’ve started using internet itself, around 14 years back. Exciting as its going to be something unusual of me to share something on the internet that is close to me and my personal self. I have been always afraid of sharing something with the world. I write diary, poetry and short stories. Not for anyone but myself. Always scared of sharing and not receiving the kind of response I always wished. Writing something is easy. Writing something worthy of being written is a question every creative artist should ask him/herself before picking up a pen or typing in front of a dimly lit screen on a cloudy weather night, by an artist stroking a brush on a canvas, or by a photographer taking snap. The answer is always hidden in the approach that moves our desires, our emotions to such extent that we start procreating it in one form or the other.
I guess it’s a human nature, not to share something personal, not until the perfect time has come. The perfect gracious time that all of us, the creative beings, wait to arrive. In which we could just express the world what’s inside us, believing that it’ll be appreciated and loved. But sometimes it’s not the acknowledgment we are searching for but a catharsis, like stepping out of a deep well, scribbling a paper on a notepad so rigorously that it starts to tear apart, or wrecking a wall until your hands bleed out! It’s kind of a burden until and unless it is been poured on to a canvas, a paper, a symphony or even a photograph. It’s an emotion that cannot be explained in words. It’s something surreal, ethereal in nature.
To begin with, I have never been anyone that can be termed as creative. It might be just a sheer coincidence that I start seeing patterns whenever I close my eyes, and words came down upon me whenever I sat to write something each night on the bed. I still remember those days. Moving to Jeddah from Dammam was not just a matter of change in place, but a whole different perspective, for me at least. Jeddah has its own charms. It made me a different person. A transition, a metamorphosis in development. A cocoon turning into a moth. It gave me wings. The first poem, the first ideas shaping onto paper as something making sense, rather than words of lunacy. Writing in the light of an IKEA lamp resting on a desk drawer beside my bed. I always let my windows open, as well as the door that leads to the gallery. The air gave me some signs and symbols. A boost may be. I have never felt this tinkling, this whispering any time before this. It was something magical. Each day a new exploration. Sometimes I just kept my diary open for like hours, nothing to write. Waiting for some divine revelations… it’s a part of the deal. You have to wait. The later the better. That’s what I learned.
Anyways, coming back to the present day. I’m starting to write again, or more precisely ‘to type’. A new medium, and yet newer approach. Why am I so interested in writing a blog? Again the inner self. It never misguides me. It’s like voice of GOD. The part of yourself that has conscience, again works on the same principle. It never lies. I have no target to achieve. I’m starting a new phase of my life, or it’s better to say starting to explore it. GOD has never failed me, and INSHA’ALLAH (GOD willing), He won’t ever. That said, I’m confident enough now to speak. To counter any critique that’ll ever be thrown upon me, regarding my work, my words, or even my personal self. The story of our lives continues to expand, with each day that passes by, there’s always something or someone to learn from. Never underestimates even the tiniest bits of inspirations. Those small details helps us to understand the perplexity of life in a better way, which eventually makes us a better human, indeed…