No need for a title this time

I sat down, and right now, I am at my laptop. I’ve been feeling this stuckness, even though the urge and desire to write has been looming over me for the past week. Every time I open the computer and rest my fingers on the keyboard, I get blocked, unsure of what to write. Anyone with a passion for writing has experienced the classic “writer’s block” at least once; it’s just part of the craft’s nature. But do I really have to write about something specific? For instance, on this blog where lately I’ve only shared posts related to my profession, can’t I just pour out my emotions on any random topic outside of work? Of course I can. We all know life isn’t just about professions and careers. Therefore, my emotions, thoughts, and ideas can develop beautifully around subjects beyond my career, and since this is my personal blog, I can certainly share them. After all, besides being a showcase for my professional vision, I use this blog as a tool to express my inner world. Even if I spend a day doing absolutely nothing, playing the role of a pure consumer, just a single line flowing from my fingers at the end of the day adds so much to me emotionally. It feels as if my mind is a room that I’ve just tidied up, and finally, I’ve opened the window to let the fresh air in. If you’re wondering what’s so incredibly great about that feeling, well, yes, I have a bit of a cleaning obsession.

I’ve been writing, drawing, and scribbling since childhood. Notebooks, tangled sentences, pages of Word documents (I can’t really say I’m analog when it comes to this), I have always crossed paths with blank pages during certain cyclical periods of my life. There are some emotions, some sentences that just refuse to sit right. You try to express yourself to a friend, to anyone, but the feeling of talking to a brick wall hits you right in the face like a slap. Does this mean our friends or families are unsympathetic or lacking empathy? That question will inevitably pop up, but of course not. If everyone has experienced this at least once in their lives, then we would have to claim that everyone in this world, including you and me, lacks empathy and understanding. Would that be a valid claim? Never. Emotions and experiences are deeply individual. Even two close friends who consider themselves soulmates, two halves of the same apple, so to speak, experience the exact same event with entirely different emotions, thoughts, and outcomes. This is where becoming friends with yourself comes into play. Sometimes, the feeling of being misunderstood when trying to express ourselves to another person doesn’t stem from their lack of understanding or our own inability to articulate. Because experienced emotions are individual and unique to the person, what someone sometimes needs is to sit down face to face and have a conversation with themselves. Through blank pages, monologues, music, drawing, or even just a slow walk on the beach.

I am 25 years old. Since my early 20s, I’ve felt a profound shift in my worldly perspective. They usually say it’s characteristic of the 20s, that these are the years when our character and thought patterns settle in. If you ask me, I’d say no. You discover a new version of yourself at every age; you change, evolve, and most importantly, get to know yourself for as long as you breathe. Our journey in this world is actually a process of getting to know ourselves, even more than exploring the outside world. 70 years. Sometimes it’s long enough to fit a whole world of living, yet too short to truly know oneself.

That’s why I don’t agree with any of those sharp, black and white cliches like, “humans are ultimately solitary creatures; at the end of the day, there is no one else, it’s just you, you are alone…” or “humans are social creatures, it is other people who define their existence.” Then, of course, there’s, “even if a person is alone, they aren’t lonely, because God exists!” which is a personal, religious perspective that deserves absolute respect. But to me, the God we imagine as an old, white-bearded man up above is simply a metaphor for a faithful Pollyanna deep within us; a version of our own self that holds onto hope against all odds. If you ask me, sometimes we record unforgettable, precious memories into our lives while surrounded by a crowded group of friends. Sometimes, after a day full of noise and people, we feel completely isolated within that hollow crowd. Sometimes we experience secluded moments where no one is by our side, or where we simply don’t want anyone to be. And sometimes, even in that “secluded” moment where you are left alone with yourself, facing and showing compassion to yourself, you don’t feel lonely at all. These things are just like that, shifting, uncertain, unpredictable, and gray. And there comes a turning point: from the moment you see that you can get along with yourself through your experiences and emotions, life begins to flow more smoothly. Sweet memories start tasting sweeter, because knowing they aren’t infinite allows me to stay in the moment. Bitter memories start tasting better too, because I know I will feel the warmth of the sun on my skin after the rain, and I also know how much I love the scent of the earth after a downpour. Moreover, what makes bitter memories so special is that I discover a new version of myself through them. Friendships become more fluid and tolerant. I realize that instead of a heavy dose of empathy and being profoundly understood, simply being listened to quietly but genuinely is enough. Rather than flailing and sinking deeper into a vast ocean with unpredictable waves, I let my body relax and enjoy floating along with the current. I think the greatest gift, whether you attribute it to being 25 or the development of the frontal lobe, whatever it is, is starting to learn how to swim in this massive ocean. I wouldn’t say I’ve fully learned it yet, of course, let’s not make grand claims.

I sat down, and right now, I am at my laptop. I’ve been feeling this stuckness, even though the urge and desire to write has been looming over me for the past week. Every time I opened the computer and rested my fingers on the keyboard, I got blocked, unsure of what to write. That was until I said, “screw it, does it always have to be planned around a topic? Let me just talk nonsense this time,” and spontaneously began to dance across the keyboard. Sometimes, being spontaneous is good. Because the love of writing, in addition to building a planned and research oriented framework, is sometimes like throwing wild lines onto a completely blank canvas. The written manifestation of an abstract expressionist canvas.