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  • Writer's pictureTheInkblotJournal

For the Ones Outlined with Words, Read This

Updated: Jun 17, 2021

by Husna Irfan

Writing can save you in your darkest dips in life, but it can also terminate you like you're just another bug

So rest, until the block that makes you knee-dive onto the ground and beg for the story to escape your fingertips

Releases itself.

For the wave that hits after,

The euphoria can be a bit too bright

Writing for some of us is an extended arm that can pull us from going overboard.

Both in terms of ending it all, to controlling ourselves from going too far with anything.

Dark, I know.

But the insufferable darkness is what stirs up writers in the dawn of each day, to give personalities to each of our demons and turn all the ones trying to pull us down - into simple adjectives.

We turn ourselves into beggars, murderers, superheroes, magicians

Characters of all kinds

Just so that the ones reading it can feel normal

So they can peer into our world through the lens of hopeless sufferers and silent angels

The world filled with so much hate and so much love

We pack a punch, with all that poetic philosophy

That we weave softly and thoughtfully in-between our lines

Whispering beneath our breath - I hope they get it

Writers, they have a way with their words

Quirky, I know.

Yet each one of us knows how desperately we try to fish for the perfect words, for the perfect sentence, the perfect structure to the perfect stories

And our brave but feeble fingers come up empty, and then the sirens for the next creative famine goes off

Blowing a strike to your heart and the voices in our heads start to bellow

Harrowing, I know.

They are hungry for success, and the dreadful fear of not reaching the unattainable goal we frame up on our walls

Starts to cook our stories into a sticky syrup of

You can't do it, you obviously can’t write it, you can't write, you can't do it, try again, never mind don't try, you can never do it, ever, stop trying.

And so, we tread carefully around the borders of our imagination

Awaiting, with sweat dripping down our back

Leaving scars of acid trails that pool beneath our feet, drowning us into misery

Tip-toeing, making sure not to wake the wild gods within us that can end it all


it morphed me into a sick devil

Churning myself to do it all, which ended up in me starving with the identity of who I am, and what my words represent of me -



And it's all because I didn’t let time write for me.

When you try to outlive your time,

The damnation of losing yourself is guaranteed.

But it's okay, we writers

We -

Write all of humanity in our own beautifully messed-up versions

We know so much of everything, because someone chose to write it

So write.

Write like the whole world will follow it like scripture

Write as if, they say,

Your life depends on it

Because it does.

We writers - we weren’t made to shut up and curl into a ball

We are emotional and livid and impulsive and hungry

for art,

Feed yourself art - it will disintegrate you open and release magic from within

We are made to create art so humans can survive the pain and the bliss of our world

We are guided to write

To save ourselves.

So write,

Like the demons are already dancing on your bed and you sip your coffee just waiting to create a plot twist that will send them straight down back to Satan's lap

Or maybe

You are the ruler of the underworld, controlling all evil so nothing can stop you

Because nothing can

Except yourself.

To the readers who read our life’s work, our most vulnerable self is splattered across your screen or page

You are reading our invisible tears, our cries for help, the endless breakdowns in the middle of the night and the hours of eyes burning in the light

Simply drink from our prose and poetry

Quench the thirst of your dying curiosity and imagination

Enter the portal into our world whenever you want to escape life

If that happens


Writers, we did it.

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