I write about anything that comes to mind. I can write about a piece of rock and play with words until I turn it into a precious gem. But that still doesn’t change the fact that I was writing about a rock. It’s just a rock. Nothing more, nothing less.
It is only now that I realized the danger of doing such. Wrong interpretations and assumptions have caused me frustrations from time to time. But should that stop me from being me? I can easily say that I am not responsible for what people say and think about what I write. But my conscience is dragging me to speak up. Allow me to become vulnerable even just at this point:
“I never wrote about you. I will never understand what made you think that you are part of the plot. Yes, I appreciate it but it’s time to wake up from this reverie. So free yourself from the idea that it was all about you. I don’t want you to become a prisoner of your own ideas.”
I only write things about myself, my thoughts and my silly emotions. I write in my own world which I’m never going to share to anyone. This is my sanctuary. And as much as I wanted to change my style of writing and expose the core of my thoughts and emotions, drifting away from my choice of metaphors and other self-made poetic gestures won’t make me any vulnerable. I’ll just be one of those writers who try to be somebody else by pleasing their readers instead of finding joy for themselves.
Besides, isn’t that what true art really is? To be veiled in metaphors yet still manages to strike the heart? I do not know. Maybe I should just focus on the rock.