The Physics of Writing

Sometimes we write just to fill the empty spaces. It is the paranoia that we respond to, not the urge. When we see empty spaces, emptied perhaps, by farewell of what once existed, we write in remembrance. Or maybe, in remorse. The space now emptied isn’t the same as before. It is a telling of a story that has transpired here, leaving behind some sense of its existence. The things that occupy these spaces distills the silence. They come up, probably, only to unsettle the peace of nothingness. And hence we write. Or maybe, thereto.
We write because we know we can’t have a complete erasure of these existential relics. We write either to sediment the past to a point where it begins to metamorphose into something else or to make that past lose its meaning. As much as it fails almost every time to undo what has been done, I confide my writing to the latter. I know everything has to be seen from a long run perspective but wouldn’t it be easier if I just make my short runs a lot more livable and continue to do so to the point where my long run just cease to exist. A life led in short runs and all what is left for long run is death. Or maybe, afterlife.

So, we write to fill in the spaces demanded by our very own short runs. We know we’re running, literally leaping over momentary realisations just to keep that happiness intact, we know we can’t be scared so we write. We write to fill the burrows of questions left unanswered by the lightness that we ignorantly choose to afford. The lightness that costs burdens of oblivion.

Talking about empty spaces I think the ‘area’ or ‘property’ that excites me the most is the one that remains unexplored somewhere within our bodies. Artists who turn to acting to write about their fulfilling activities, I’ve noticed that playing a nude scene creates that ‘opportunity’ for writers (actors) to fill the emptiness that there bodies felt while not fully committing itself to the job they were destined to pursue. In that particular moment, the writer (actor) provides a narrative to the body that enables her to eliminate the voids that physical inhibitions like body shaming might have created that potentially clogged the writer from discovering the aesthetics of its own body (now body of work). 

Extending the same line of thought, another reason why we write is to cover spaces that part us from our unrealised ‘darkness’. I’m referring to a particular state as ‘darkness’ partially due to the common parlance in the pop culture but significantly due to the lack of recognition or ‘light’ that is casted upon it. So much so that most of the elements of our own being are unconsciously kept aloof from our so called ‘informed choice’. As a writer, it is often exciting to travel distances on a psychedelic trip. And personally, the trip that often unconsciously drives us to take that long psychological road is the journey that spaced out in our own elements. The miles that remain untravelled between the known or the “brighter” side and the unexplored ‘darker’ side. 

Now that we know why we write, it won’t hurt much to say that we’re mostly wrong. If we were correct, or the matter that we respond to was devoid of any flaw, what would have motioned us to take an effort to write? If laws of motion in Newtonian physics are anything to go by, we are not simply ‘writing’. We are responding. We are addressing the miles and directions of emptiness that provide us with a force to move. No matter if it is forward or backward. 


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