Sometimes people tell me they liked a certain piece of writing I did, or that I inspired them and helped them feel like they weren't alone, or that I wrote well in a particular post.
I do not understand it. Every post of mine is a first draft, apart from checking back for grammatical / spelling errors; almost every post is done out of the need to simply let it out. If I'm feeling like crap, I feel the need to let it out here, do a little emotions file transfer. My mind lets go and my fingers do the uploading. And ten minutes later I feel better so I put my heart aside and get back to whatever I was supposed to do.
Even the pieces in my college application creative writing portfolios were conceived in the same manner. I cannot conjure something out of will, and I can't edit my work once it's done - it always turns out forced, disjointed, unauthentic. And if I'm not feeling it I just can't write.
I don't know why people call my posts beautiful, or which are nice. I don't even know how the words come. I'm terribly uneloquent in real life and I cannot express myself verbally. When I write, my fingers create the words, not my brain. I don't know how it happens. It isn't me thinking up these words. It's too eloquent to be from me.
I don't know how it happens and I don't understand what people say. When I write, it's for myself. Often I hope for others to see it in case anyone feels the same way and I help them with their emotions, help them articulate what they're feeling and help them realise they aren't alone, but I usually just type to vent steam. And I haven't done a proper piece of writing in such a long time. I was scrolling through my blog posts just now (I can't do it as I type because I'm typing on my phone, here in the dining hall at Berkeley College, Yale, squeezing on the piano chair with Kevin who's playing a Final Fantasy piece) and I didn't feel any sort of beauty at all, and then I began to get all worried and a bit disgusted. And then I remembered how Rohan said my previous post was really nice, and then I got scared. Because what is nice? How do I know what's beautiful anymore?
It's a weird kind of worry, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of despair. Despair at the uselessness of creative writing and at how many years I haven't properly exercised this passion (that was relatively new-found to begin with) and at how I don't know how I create this "beauty" that others claim is there and how I can't even differentiate beauty from waste anymore.
Yeah, by the way, I'm in Yale now. New Haven, Connecticut! Loving every minute of it. Check out my photos on Facebook :)