The Room of one's Own

 

What if your mind is your room?

 

Struggling writer in suspense of success,

“Whom should I write for?”

Contradictory thoughts one after the other.

Finally ends up in “F#ck this!”

Almost gives up! But no, he wants to write because he is got an untold story within himself. Stops again!

“But why do they need to hear anything about it?”

May be without telling it he feels quiet incomplete rather devastating. May be its not about him. May be it is a message to be delivered. Finding a purpose of his writing is far from him but for his readers. He laughs with slight desperation inside,

“But who would read? Well there is a few! May be I will write for them or my own self”. Relieved!

Isn’t it peaceful when you really give up the expectations? He thinks to himself.

He feels calmer as the words drop from the ink. But the conversion of thoughts inside to words was no easier task. Some words wouldn’t do the justice. Some would exaggerate. He stops and thinks to himself, Is this really me? Is this my voice through the words written?

He remembers the tranquility he once felt amongst the woods through to the top of the mountain. Away from the racket down below in the distracted city was diminishing until he could finally hear his own voice, his own thoughts in the silence. It was almost as if the dancing water was becoming still. Being himself, finding his own voice was exhausting amidst a crowd chattering about who to be and what to do endlessly. It was a journey away from the world where everybody knew what is perfect, it was a meditation and it took a lot of courage.

“Walking once helped” He nodded to himself.

So was the lonesome church. It’s amazing what a building filled with prayers and wooden benches  could do to a person distressed.

So was all the books. Pieces of words carefully appended from the people who were once unheard and ignored. Books were friends, he never could have met. Walking in the woods evolved to time-traveling across centuries, around the earth.

Writing was his salvation. He walked for it, He smoked for it, and He almost killed himself for it.  

There! Neruda was flirting with Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, Osho was meditating in a corner, Krishnamurti was making conversation to Gorky, Flora Cash was singing "You're Somebody Else" in the Room of His Own!