If I am not mistaken, Simone de Beauvoir when asked why she wrote answered that ‘the fear of losing a loved one’ drove her to write.
I always thought that people write because they have something to say. I write because I have something to say. To quote Sylvia Plath:
“I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still”
It’s that voice inside me that keeps bugging me until I jot down my thoughts and feelings. It’s true that something about life scares the hell out of me. I cannot pinpoint exactly what it is about life that bothers me. Perhaps it’s the fear of losing a loved one. Perhaps it’s the fear of losing my sense of belonging that follows my loss. That loss of the sense of closeness, of intimacy and the feeling of being left alone to face the world and whatever life throws in my face. Because for me, the world:
“The whole world is divided for me into two parts: one is she, and there is all happiness, hope, light; the other is where she is not, and there is dejection and darkness…” Leo Tolstoy
Now that I have lost my love I feel nothing but sadness. I so long to see the light at the end of the tunnel, I want to find hope somewhere, anywhere. The only consolation that I get is through my writing. Most of the time I start with something and end up writing something else. I never write it quite the way I want to. Because some things are hard to write about. All that remains of the life I had are memories. And memories are in the words of Samuel Becket:
“Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.”
On most days when I am left alone in the house I so long to have my life back, I so long to have him beside me to hear his voice, to hear him call my name. And that’s when the pain becomes too much to bear.
“My life, my life, now I speak of it as of something over, now as of a joke which still goes on, and it is neither, for at the same time it is over and it goes on, and is there any tense for that?” Samuel Beckett
That’s when I want to be somewhere where nobody I know could ever come. The blank page, my page. I let my imagination and my memories take over and I write and write until I totally lose myself. And when I stop:
“When you stop [writing] you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through.” Ernest Hemingway