Of writing, nostalgia and fear.

We used to write with such childlike freedom. No restrictions. No rigid formats to follow. No detailed instructions on the “how” and “what”. We wrote because it was our second nature, like artists drew and singers sang. Words poured out onto the page, running after our train of thought that was often a mixed up mess of thoughts and ideas crowding our brain at once. We wrote because nothing brings us joy like seeing words come together under our little hand, to form sentences that sometimes make sense to only ourselves. Each piece of writing was like the favourite toy we owned since we were little. It might not be in perfect condition, chipped or even broken in some parts, but we held it dear to our heart and burst into tears whenever someone attempted to take it away. Sometimes we wrote just so we could laugh at our own writing later on. Because as we laughed, we also could see how and how much we had grown. Writing was our way of speaking. Because we were the awkward kids who found it so much easier to slip a piece of paper into someone’s  hand and run away than to talk to them.

We used to write to express, not impress.

Now we still write, even more than before. But we write because we are made to write. Maybe “writing” is not even the appropriate word. We are producing words, vomiting bombastic terms one after another. Sluggishly. As though it was a laborious task someone has thrown upon us. We spend hours slaving over the white piece of paper, trying to put on it as many beautiful-sounding words as possible. Sometimes we don’t even know any other reason for using a word than that it would make our work appear more impressive and us as the author more intelligent and knowledgeable. We write things we don’t even agree with. We write to please the readers, not the writer – ourselves. A piece of writing holds no more value than just another assignment we need to complete (most of the time by the next day).

You may say not everyone is good at writing and can simply sit down and have words flowing out from their pen. Of course writing must take a lot of time and effort. Well, I wholeheartedly agree! And even for those who have a flair for writing, words do not come easily to make a good piece of writing, either. It is not uncommon to hear a famous writer say it took him months or even years to find one correct word to use. However, it is the attitude we have towards writing that draws the line and makes all the difference. We hate writing. We would rather do math because numbers are so much easier to deal with. Humanity subjects with the requirement for lots of writing are to be avoided. And it pains me to realise that sometimes I also fall into those same behaviours. I lament when I am tasked to write essays, be it for GP or Literature.  It may be my own fault, it may be the system's fault for making writing a burden instead of a joy as it ought to be. Regardless of who is to blame, the indifference to or even distaste for writing among the youth is a harrowing reality. And it strikes me all of a sudden that whether there will come a day when I also become one of them, when words to me are merely the product of not creativity and intellectual liberty but mindless regurgitation of facts.

That would be a truly sad day, indeed.