Since graduating in 2011, the way I began to analyze the world had changed, it’s transformed. You look at the world with open eyes, only, the canvas is wider. A different world. One you are unknown of it’s true existence. There was a strong sense of realization. And that moment, I realized the collective thoughts — self-generated predictions and assumptions — of life had been a polar opposite.
The feeling is not based on expectations but rather, the question, how does your existence — within this complicated constellation of constant traffic of souls — fit in. You are a drop of atom within an ocean of intricate beings. But you’ve already seem to digest and understand so much more. This is the true power of the mind, a keen explorer and observer. It’s learning and unlocking itself as we wave through our journey. Your mind a shuffling Rubik’s Cube, puzzle-solving symptoms of a curiously expandable mind.
I consider my present times to be my most important years, as a person, constantly evolving. As an emerging writer, constantly consumed by a series of anxieties and uncertainties. Emotional chaos. I do not speak of risks, because taking them, never intimidates me. Because it comes to me by natural instinct. Within this elaborate equation, the addition of faith and hope keeps me afloat. Both of which have always remained consistent. Neither of which are ever meant to reach equilibrium. It’s a metaphor not a chemical reaction.
But I find myself involuntarily invited to occasional outbursts of invisible anger, disguised in a thick mask of frustration. A catalyst, born out of expectation(s). Words of appreciation.
In the competitive world of literature, your existence as a writer — emerging kind, finding your feet — seems to fade, behind a curtain of the distinguished, the established writers. This is NOT an expression of jealously, for one had achieved and succeeded. One has made their mark. But I speak of echoes that find no voice, their consolidations buried under the weight of recognition, constant hope to be fully realized. This is our ever developing, prolonged struggle to receive recognition. To leave an imprint with our body of work. To expect, is to face a sinister wave of disappointments.
I was introduced to the world of literature back in late 2012, and yet, here I am, searching for a voice. To be discovered. In part, we are finding a social, statues label that highlights the importance of our existence. Possibly. And I wander, is it truly worth it, even if we succeed?
Through our writing, our voice is originated from a whisper of anxious echoes. Travelling through letters to form words, converted from emotions and then translated to expressions. The beautiful text of profound poetry. You paint the minds blank canvas.
It never struck me this deep, until I recently learnt of the tragic passing of Marina Keegan, Yale 2012 graduate — a prodigious talent. Her book, The Opposite of Loneliness — a posthumous collection of essays released this year. I struggled to leaf through the first few pages, because such particles of loneliness lingered in your mind. I speak of her because I’ve made an instant connection. Only a writer could identify and relate to.
The life of a writer is a complicated mix of potent strength of expressions and words. Deeper within the spine of this mixture there is loneliness. Always consistent. It’s an emotional state of personal importance. A troubled existence.What will come of the gifted, and those stemming out, emerging, I ask?
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This series of thoughts had originated in the light of Marina Keegan, who I came to be greatly inspired by. Phenomenal human being and talent.
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Am humbled by the kind response of a dear friend and emerging talent in photograpgy, Chih-Chieh Wang who accepted to feature his work, the art cover. In great support of him, always.
You can follow his darkly potent work on the link below;