The Craft of Writing

Every day I am to write 500 words to improve this craft called writing.

The power is out, and the room is beginning to heat up.

I live in a country that belongs to the developing world. That means aspects such as infrastructure, education, security, health, and many more things are not completely up to world standards.

Over populous, with a majority of the population uneducated, extremely superstitious and volatile. The merest fall of a leaf can stir them into violent rebellion, causing catastrophic damage.

I am finding it difficult to focus. In order to improve focus time, one should meditate and take time away from the menace of smartphones.

I am strongly considering doing away with my smart phone and getting a traditional cell phone which is just used for contacting others.

I hate this menace that we carry around in our hands, sucking the life and energy from our minds.

It’s loathsome how grossly addicting is it, just to watch nothingness. How we crave this nothingness and fill our brains with useless muck. Useless muck which takes away so much heart and spirit from ourselves.

I am tired. I am frankly tired of it, and I crave the touch of nature. Being in her, in her purity. To be received under the clear skies, and to feel the cool earth and grass beneath my feet. To sit under the shade of the tree and ponder. To search for meaning within myself and to make sense of the short remaining life that I have.

To finally have enough quiet so I can connect with my soul, which has been sidelined, ignored, and shut away, by the forces of these despicable devices I surround myself with.

They are stealing myself from me. We let that happen, so so easily.

I yearn to connect with the pure divinity bestowed inside of me. The wisdom which is locked and withers, yet always waits.

I am not connected to myself. I operate from an outer shallow realm. Following pre-made patterns, blindly, without depth or meaning of what it means to me.

I have lost myself somewhere, and I miss it. I miss those parts which would occasionally appear, revealing myself to me.

But life has a grand way of stomping everything down. Like crushed leaves. Yellowed, broken, and disconnected from their source.

Believing in yourself is magic they say. But shouldn't the first step be, to find yourself in the first place?

I know I am doing this as a chore. But do I must. Beauty is never birthed easily. It takes discipline and practice. There will hard days and to overcome is a success for me.

I will hone this. I will embrace it. Till words spill from me as readily as blood spills from a nick. Flowing like freedom.

Forty more words and today would be another day I achieved my target. Though the heart may not be into and the mind may be numb. But I shall persevere because I can. I have the strength, residing somewhere inside of me. There are days when the task seems juvenile, and there are days like today when writing seems like moving mountains.

Today the words came to me, easier than yesterday. They weren't pretty words, laced and perfumed. They were morbid and dark, reeking of grief and gore. A past regrets and will to not live. It is one of those days perhaps. But I am feeling this darkness inside of me, and letting it process itself, so that perhaps someday it would leave my inside realm and give me some room to breathe.