Why Writing is Important to Me
“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” – Anne Frank
If you have read my bio, it states “When I have nothing in mind, I read. When I have too much in mind, I write”.
There is no magic greater than ink immortalizing on paper words of solace.
It all started when I was in college and a mysterious illness defined my life. There was the constant threat of vanishing into nothingness, like the bursting of a soap bubble, like the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I was sick with something that eluded the greatest of the minds and the best of the doctors. My life was like that of a Hogwarts’s student deprived of magic, in the prison of Azkaban. Living life was akin to the kiss of death.
Irrespective of a degraded quality of life, I vehemently refused to lose my productivity. It just didn’t fit right to think of a condition wherein I lay in sky blue overalls on a hospital bed, only to be diagnosed as nothing. Because no investigative procedure existed on earth which could diagnose me.
The medical community is like a frog in a well. It refuses to acknowledge the vast ambience outside their well of knowledge. Anything which doesn’t fit into their algorithm is quickly discarded as ‘nothing’.
In order to be relevant, to have a meaning and a purpose in life, I started reading. I read fiction and non-fiction. I read about history, specifically the history of medicine. I read about psychology, neuropsychiatry and the history of the world. I read classics — ‘Metamorphosis’ by Franz Kafka, ‘Crime and Punishment’ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, ‘1984’ by George Orwell.
I could feel the warmth of the pages embracing me in a tight hug, as if I was not alone, as if there was a dimension on this planet which accepted me, which agreed to understand me. Life was not easy, but my books never left my company.
I then took a step further which ended up stabilizing the boat of my life, dancing on the waves of destiny, about to topple over with just one more blow. I began to write.
I put the pain on paper. The complex thoughts like a word-to-word google translation of a paragraph, devoid of grammatical sense, all swimming together in the sea of my mind, were put up for the people to read. Acceptance came in the form of upvotes on Quora, and innumerable complimentary messages from my colleagues.
I found a community online which accepted me, which said, “Hey! It’s okay. You are not an anomaly.” A horde of accounts which assured me that I was not alone, and that I would make it, sooner than I imagined.
It is tough to stay in a circle of people whose mind is a puddle. Any interaction leaves you unsatisfied as you jump into their mind and end up getting stained with mediocrity, with a thought process which is shallower than a layer of water spilled on a table.
But when you get people who appreciate you and your efforts, who acknowledge the waves you are traversing in a storm of bad luck, who engage in deep conversations like the meaning of life and suffering, who question the dogmatic thought processes engraved deeply in an orthodox community, you experience bliss. You feel powerful. Like a spartan leading an army of thousands. Like an unending flame which dispels the darkness around. Like an interminable force which ends up getting everything in order.
Writing has come to be very close to me. The process ended up clearing my thoughts and making me stronger. It provided me with a sword of ideas and a shield of resilience. It has been instrumental in making me what I’m today, helping me fight the demons, as I grovelled along until I stood up, with a thousand cuts and bruises embellishing my journey.
The Unknown Doctor