Friday, 15 December 2017

An Open Apology To Writing

I never thought I'd lose writing.

It seemed as natural as always having toes. It was the one thing that warmed the cockles of my waning spirit as I traversed a sea of mathematics and technology that terrified me with its arctic depths. It was almost this mother-figure that would love me and stand by me, no matter how rigorously I put it through the wringer. It tried not to judge me as I grappled desperately with the ever-fattening demands of journalism, and twisted a phrase so it was grammar-unfriendly, but a moth-to-clickbait's-flame.

It watched patiently as I sacrificed a turn of phrase dripping with derision and delicious audacity for one that was, to put it simply, 'on-brand'. It watched as I replaced language with jargon, and forgave me for the haphazardness of youth. It took a shafting on the regular, happy only in its service, pleased to be part of my day-to-day with such unwavering delight that it took what it could get; misogynist undertones and the fondant of frivolity in tow.

And it didn't sound out so much as a peep as I chose ambition over passion. As I neglected to acknowledge that, in the jelly-mold-set career paths we all drone down, onward and forward with unfettered singularity, I was giving up the one thing that made getting up on a grey day with biting candour in it's chill, worth it. In even the lowest moments of candy-almond vapidity, there was solace, because the writing was there. It was the long-distance of loves, but the commitment was there.

And in one fell swoop of a pre-packaged society-spurred desire to propel myself upwards into the vagueness of the 'bigger, better', I renounced the one thing I had promised myself to in the Bambi-eyed freshness of my youth, and renewed in the mild (mostly misinformed) wisdom of the twenty-something: That I'd 'do what I loved'.

And now, as poor writing stands aching for a way to break into my everyday, it watches me tweak, admonish and shape other writers as my own mighty pen (or rather, solitary typing finger) is laid to rest, only to be brandished in gentle spurts as it control<deletes a dying phrase and replaces it with my own voice, quietly yearning to sing.

It watches, as I labour in the hope that someday, I'll find a few spare seconds to check if I remember how to write. And I wonder, with my desperation at its discreet best, when I will forget.

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