George Orwell, in his “Why I write” published in 1946, announces the derives by which any writer is pushed to translate his musings into ink on paper.
One may have the urge to “be remembered” and to “seem clever” at once. For that, the urge is called “Sheer Egoism”. One can also write just for the sake of a good prose and for the love of congruity. The lines are, therefore, a mere reflection of a definite perception of the external beauty. An example to this “Aesthetic Enthusiasm”, is the poem “A Valentine to _ _ _ “by the American poet Edgar Allan Poe. Its composition is challenging as he inserted the name of the valentine within the lines: The first letter of the first line is the first letter of the mysterious lady’s name. The second letter of the second line is the second letter of the valentine and so on. The poem, hereafter, becomes a puzzle that mirrors the poet’s genius and his idiosyncratic concern for beauty, sounds and rhythms. As for the third desire which may form a pulse for writing is the historical motive. It consists of “storing historical facts for the purpose of prosperity”, to paraphrase Orwell’s words. The fourth and the last one is the political purpose. No book, according to Orwell, is void of a political stance. He declares “the opinion that art has nothing to do with politics is in itself a political attitude. “
What I suggest is another momentum thanks to which I both inhaled and exhaled literature. One tends to let out one’s decaying past, one’s precious yet lost memories or even one’s hopes for the future, in lines. I, for instance, engrave my thoughts on paper even though I know it will probably not be read. If you are actually reading this then it means I have shown it to you; and I know that somehow you agree with what I am saying. My derive is not unique. For this reason, “sheer egoism” is not my motive. As for history, I need to admit that I scorn platitude and I am more lenient to imagination. Politics on the other hand is a net in which I wish not to be ensnared.
I call my impulse “The search of the paradise within”. It is an approach to the ghastly corners of my psyche with a genial smile. A pithily wrought verse does not express what I truly feel; but it is rather an attempt to it. One does not always need reasons to be happy. Power lies in the fact that you might endure the heavy burden of the whole humanity but still manage to draw a smile for the mere sake of smiling. Thus, you are defying the malice and miseries of life. It is a search for peace and this is my sole definition for it.
When I am in a conflict with myself.. When I am too steeped in remorse or when I am worried about a dear to me, I fail to sense that peace. My sensations taste like bitterness and I strain myself to writing. Writing becomes a best friend who welcomes all your confessions. It is similar to an act of momentary purification during which my mind is cleansed from morosity. I try to direct my focus to rather existential question just to belittle my inquietude. I call it sometimes “cheating on myself”. However, in some cases it ends with a failure.
I find myself plunging in a wider sea. I cease to see the light. I seize melancholia, my eternal blight. In the search of the paradise within one is liable to stumble upon inferno instead. Past errors even if corrected carve a hole in your memory. Black ravens roam over your heart. It is gradually metamorphosed into a graveyard of dead memories, dead hopes, dead aspirations, dead trust in one’s self. From it, comes self-loathing: These are the dark corridors of my within. I acknowledge that these last lines adhere to the previous idea and I consider it as an experimental writing. Here is then the conclusion: If one thinks one is delighted, it becomes truth. If one thinks one is doomed, it is inescapable that one will be forever doomed.
The mind is the beating heart of the psyche.
If you convince yourself you are hopeless, then you will be soaked in despair. Otherwise, you will still find hope in hopelessness and grow inspiration even with seeds of angst.