In Light of the Shadows

A reader once commented on the way I write. He said my posts were candid and insightful, and that at times I was refreshing to read. Unlike most blogs he’s come across which were light and fluff, he said mine slithered deep inside places that most people would’ve just rather kept hidden. My writing, he added, saddened him for he felt my words always came from a very dark place of hurt and pain.

That last remark had hit a nerve, for I pondered on this for weeks on end. I found myself re-evaluating this so-called gloomy outlook of mine and began questioning why I couldn’t be like those people I’m perpetually in awe of --- those who bounce off walls with seemingly ludicrous glee and optimism. Furthermore, was I too jaded that I couldn’t hold on to my episodes of happiness long enough to write about them.

In my thirty odd years, I’ve experienced most of what others have --- I’ve been reduced to the ground in pain and I’ve also soared among the clouds in ecstasy. Yet, some of these moments I might have experienced too deeply than others. What could be easily brushed aside by most, I dwell upon for ages.

I suppose it has always been in my nature to explore every crevice of a smile to the point that I not only know how it looks and feels but also sometimes I swear I even know its color, smell, and sound. And while the average person avoids the bad, I accept it by spending a great deal of time travelling these uncharted lows and acquainting myself with the strange shadows that lurk deep, until I’ve unknowingly come to know them as a part of me.

I write about my experiences every time I feel these moments would go to waste if I left them unwritten. But when everything in my life is in high spirits, creativity takes an unfortunate dip and my writing gets stuck. It’s either I’m too busy living it or the lightness of these joys just doesn’t interest me enough to actually sit down and write about them.

In turn, I’ve realized it is when I’m down and stressed that the ideas come spilling out. I don’t think it strange or that I’m alone on this. In fact, it comforts me to know that the Hemingways and the Poes (although I don’t even dare to think I’m in their ranks, yet) of our time were sad tortured souls as well.

It troubled me before when a reader said that I seem to draw inspiration and drive from someplace dark. Well, maybe I do… But honestly now, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. Because I can’t be insightful unless there’s a willingness to dig deep into the highs and lows, and to visit places most would rather not even gaze upon.

So, to my readers:

I can’t be all light and fluff and everything nice --- because I’m also in the shadows, the intense, and in some places dark.