Scribbles: The Path to Meaning

There was a time, when if I sat down to write something, all I would do was write gibberish. No meaning, no words even sometimes. I was angry, and I did not want to write for a purpose. I wanted to write freely, with no bounds. Sometimes I would start off with a good sentence but soon transition into a frenzy of incoherent words and scribbles. I didn't fill pages with this unique, dare I say, format of writing, but instead maybe half a page at a time. Because even I knew in my angry scribbles that what I did made no sense. I did achieve my goal of not writing with a purpose, just writing for the sake of it. It was free, but it made no sense. And that satisfied me only till the threshold of about half a page. So, I would leave it there and come back to it or a similar ordeal on a fresh page, with a fresh thirst for my so-called freedom.

Art also is freedom for me. It is not bound, I can scribble my way with colours and fill canvases and perhaps in this case show it as my 'attempt at expression', because with little knowledge of colours I could create a beautiful piece of abstract art. Pure emotion. No boundaries, only freedom. But I would be lying to myself. It would still be a bunch of scribbles for me. I don't know why I have a problem with having a purpose, a plan. It just angers me somehow, that the pieces I make or write must have to be done for some reason or someone. There are many times when I make something just for a sheer joy of creating something. Because I can, and because it gives me some sort of satisfaction. Maybe that is a purpose too.

What I realise is not much. As I have grown, I do not scribble anymore. My anger has subsided and let way for actual coherence to flow. And in that coherence, I have crafted pieces I am proud of, which come from some deeper wisdom within myself. I do hope I am able to access that and that I find the purpose which I run away from. Recently, words have not flowed with the ease they used to. Writers block one might say. Who knows. I think anger has blocked these reaches once again. Pain and suffering have entered when there was no place for them. With time they shall pass too. For now, I write. With coherence, with love and in hope for peace. Perhaps someday, the scribbles will guide me to true meaning. I realise now that they were not useless either.