A Writer's Secret Pleasure of Ruffling Feathers

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I write. I blog, write poetry, tell stories, in essence, I write. When I sit down and watch the world around me, I try to interpret it in words. When I am sad, I recoil into words and when I am happy, I soar high into the sky on the beautiful wings of words.

Words follow the emotions and sometimes fall short of them. But, I try to ensure that they never lie. The beauty of a word is not in its sound, nor on its hallowed origin. The beauty of a word lies in the truth it represents. The truth is always an uncomfortable thing, for the writer and for the reader. It always ruffles the feathers. In fact, the discomfort that the word brings is the measure of the truth it contains. A tame, timid truth serves no one and is merely a camouflage of the truth. Truth is outrageous by its very nature, primarily because we are so conditioned to ignore it and secondarily, on account of its tendency to stick to its shape, ignorant of any pressure to mold it out of form. We are so well conditioned to ignore the truth that we ignore it even when we do not have any reason for it, say, for instance when we feel utter gratitude towards someone but hold ourselves back from expressing it. We are trained into lies all our life. When we decide to write, we unlearn that.

The decision to write is a decision to get naked in public, and to be open about our thoughts. We write and tell the world where we stand and open ourselves to a very public rebuke and a very real possibility of public humiliation. But that is the fun of it. We emerge better person out of the trials and tribulation of public writing. We bleed ourselves to be able to write and having written, we bleed some more, every time we are read. Every writer needs to have that little eccentricity, little brinkmanship in himself. A writer is a turtle which turns on its back and exposes its vulnerable middle to the world. We sometimes pretend to write humor, but truth lingers through the satire we write. Do not think that the stones which are thrown at the writer do not hurt. A writer is the saddest clown that exists and he laughs at every wound he gets. When we write, we open ourselves to be stabbed. But then, there is no other way to write. Any other kind of writing is merely a play of words, the artistry of a skillful trickster. It is timid, devoid of life, like a withered autumn leave which fell to the dust and knows not where it is destined to. 

The truthful, purposeful word doesn't adorn ridiculous clothes to shock us, nor does it shout in high decibel to attract attention. It whispers in a thunderous voice from the cloudiest skies and hits the Earth like a thunderbolt, lightening the same ground which it shudders and hits. The light which accompanies it, the pristine, truthful, momentous light, justifies the pain and agony of the strike of the thunderbolt. It ruffles feather, and through that ruffling of feathers, life turns out of the dead and smiles in splendid beauty. I love ruffling feathers. I love writing. I write for myself, but you find yourself in those words. I can almost see your face changing from an shock to anger to an unhindered smile at discovering the person inside your own being who you long thought gone. He is the only friend you have in this world- the truthful you and he comes to life by the ruffling of feathers which as a writer I tend to do.

Short Poem I wrote while thinking on this:
"When I write I grow tall and Walk with long legs, Crossing the abyss, And facing heavenwards I laugh like a thunder."