Writing.

I've always said that life brings us to unexpected places. In fact years ago I came up with the theory that I would not have expected to be where I would be in 2 years time. And life has not since then fail to surprise me. The decisions we tend to make change as we grow and that tends to lead us to places where we would never have expected to be now. But where once I was a writer, I still am now. I've always been a writer. Even though in recent years I have stopped, shunned it somewhat because writing incurs thought, encourages it and I in turn have shunned thought and introspection from my life as it brought too much pain. The greatest beauty comes from pain and sorrow. The greatest art is delved from the wells of sorrow and pain deep inside us. It is the product of emotions felt so deep within the core that it etches itself into the psyche and becomes a reality in need of expression in the artistic form.

From pain comes the greatest poetry,
From sorrow the greatest beauty.
For happiness is too careless to keep records of its histories. It is relished and then fades away into the morning sun while sorrow is etched into the walls of stone; a standing testament of when a man has stopped and stood still, apart from the  endless flow of time if only for a moment to record his deepest thoughts and desires.

For we are as a race capable of great pourings of despair. Why do people take their own lives? Is it because the world is too harsh to live with? Or is it because they themselves are too harsh to live with?

I feared the implications of my writing. Feared to delve too deep into the wells of my soul for I would find (I believed) no good things there. It became to me a symbol of difficult times. A time of turmoil and uncertainty and I had not the energy any more to look into them. I wanted to be done with the endless times of being lost in my own thought, of dwelling within my own fantasies and shunning to an extent the world outside. And so in time, the words stopped flowing and the stream of soliloquy dried up.

But I have been and I suspect always will be a writer. We cannot deny our true natures as much as we can deny the coming of the night and the day. And though I have stemmed the flow of these morbid impulses  that bring about the best of my work, there is no denying I still retain the capacity for them. I have just refused to acknowledge them. The truly happy have no need to seek sanctuary of any kind and I wanted to be among them. Or I tried very hard to be. And writing; acknowledging those pesky thoughts and encouraging the circular nature of my introspection did not provide me with any reasonable basis to do so. It was a sad man's job. Perhaps it still is.

Though in recent years I have stopped, I have ceased to pen down very many things and poetry is but a distant activity of the past, but perhaps my soul remains one with the inclination to write.