A musing about writing.
|How does one write when there is nothing to write about? With no topic, no inspiration, no muse to inspire mellifluous prose or painstakingly detailed accounts of human emotion, how does anyone aspire to delve into the minds of others? How would anyone attempt to infuse them with a sense of relation or a need to understand? It is certainly a common question, but not all questions have answers. As we continue to evolve, there will be a never-ending learning curve and host of experiences to have, and subsequently write of. I do not claim to be as insightful as Winston Churchill or as outspoken as Henry Rollins, but all I see in life is questions, with answers are few and far between.
Right now, the question is this: what *should* I write about?
I could ponder the small, often neglected nuances of nature, blathering incessantly about the grace of falling autumn leaves or the peaceful calm of the snow. I could reminisce about the blustery winter nights of my childhood--wandering down my narrow street spellbound by the silence and silenced by its mystic charm. I would have little in the way of qualms with contemplating whether sunset or sunrise is more poignant. I could speak of the indescribable sense of peace that comes from such a simple sound: waves, flowing in by the thousand, softly caressing the sand at my feet.
Perhaps I could write about the frailty of man. I could caution all to heed the warnings of the surgeon general and obey every possible healthy lifestyle habit that I could think of. I could try to teach others how akin life is to a newborn child, and how you must nurture it, love it, and let it be, lest you turn it against you and spend the rest of your life in regret. I could preach to anyone willing to lend an ear how life should never be taken for granted, and how blessings must be counted before misfortunes can even factor into the equation. I could wallow in self-pity and evoke sympathy from kind-hearted individuals over personal losses and unfortunate circumstances that have befallen me. I could attempt to teach the public the truth about self-fulfilling prophecies and how personal negativity can cause one's own destruction. I could explain how the only things to fear in life are fear itself, and, inevitably, yourself. Experience has taught me that you are your own worst enemy more often than you know.
If the mood struck, I could decide to indulge in blatant narcissism and shameless self-praise, going on and on about my inferred superiority over my peers in satirical nature. I could recount tales of my own amusing misfortune for all to laugh at and learn from. I could impart the wisdom I've earned from experience and remind others of the short duration life truly has. I would strive to teach others to live, love, and laugh, for it is easier than most realize to waste away the best times of life by focusing purely on the bottom line.
I could incite laughter by pointing out hypocrisy in everyday life, or accrue respect by saying what the common man wishes he could. I could write page after page about poetry and music, or perhaps fiction or film. I could be philosophical or outrageous; I could be insightful or rude. I could write of our future to remind us of our past.
You see, writing gives freedom to the mind: I could write anything that came to me. In today's life, anything's definition is immensely broad; moreso than ever before. I could write of anything. Anything at all.
And yet I choose to write of nothing.