Between The Squiggles

Hmm.

You know that quiet pull you feel every time you sit down to write? Like you’re carrying all these feelings, waiting to spill onto the page, hoping someone, anyone, might read them and say, “Wow, isn’t that beautiful writing?” Maybe because somewhere deep down you believe that beautiful writing hints at a beautiful mind, and that feels like validation in its own small way?

But anyway, I’m digressing. I’m not here to talk about that today. Today I want to talk about the part of us that makes us keep wanting to write.

Romanticism.

You know how, when you’re in a dimly lit room with just your table lamp on, staring at the wall in front of you? On good days that light feels romantic, and on bad days it feels like safety a hug?

On the romantic days, maybe your head’s resting against the headboard, a finger holding your place in a book, or your phone lying open beside you. And without realizing it, there’s a smile on your face — the kind that grows wider the moment you notice it’s there. You just sit there, soaking it in. The disastrous team meeting from yesterday doesn’t sting anymore, the hands you had slammed on the table after feels like a distant echo. Your heart is full and you feel it beating steady, when your attention slides down to your stomach as you notice your breath rising and falling. That motion reminds you of a bird’s throat, protruding slightly as it pulsates with each note. Is a bird always happy when it sings? Is that why we say our heart sings when we are? I’m digressing.

What I also wanted to say is that when you’re sitting by that same bedside lamp even on one of your worst days, if there’s still even a trace of romanticism left in you, you could still shape your feelings in a way that the darkness doesn’t seem like a burden. (As I’m doing right now) – darkness has a strange way of gathering close, of making everything around you feel nearer. And suddenly that nearness can feel like a quiet hug. Suddenly, you’re not afraid of the dark anymore.

Anyway, point is…

I like to believe a huge part of inspiration to write comes from this internal romanticism, or melancholy, or longing, or whatever you want to call that restless pull inside.

But few days ago, I got reminded of its finite supply. Something happened, and that reminded me how swiftly the material world can close in, how quickly you can forget there’s a writer or romantic living inside you at all. For a day or two, I completely lost touch with those parts of myself. This romanticism we carry within us only survives when we have the privilege to nurture it.

It makes me wonder how many romantics exist in this world who never get the chance to reach inside themselves because the weight of survival leaves no room for anything else.

When hunger knocks, romanticism slips out the back door.