Essays/Speeches

This Blank Page

What is something that can die, but cannot be killed? An idea.

The idea of ideas comes with an interesting little trait--they evolve in a similar manner to living organisms. Dominant, favorable ideas spread and survive while less favorable ideas must mutate and change or risk succumbing to extinction. There is an ongoing survival of the fittest behind the scenes. Through communication, every member of society contributes to the evolution of this pool of ideas. Learning more about this quirky pool is a pastime of mine, being a curious individual similar to many others. I constantly go asking questions and awaiting answers to shed more light upon this mysterious evolutionary process. Just as the people I surround myself with, I, too, am part of the bittersweet cycle associated with my said pastime: with answers come more and more unanswered questions, and this positive feedback loop brings about an inevitable information overload soon to follow. The big dispute I have with this questionable cycle is that my ideas somehow become degeneratively mutated as it awkwardly diffuses out of my mind. I enjoy writing, and it is rather agonizing, for the lack of a better word, how the very expression of ideas does not come naturally to me.

The passages ideas go through as they exit my brain consist of roadblocks that dam my turbulent stream of thought down to a mere trickle, unless weak and underdeveloped delivery is desired. The very people I surround myself with, whom I mentioned, all in one way or another claim that writing is, in truth, easy. Yet, a quantified explanation as to how they write well might be the hardest thing to actually write about. It does not matter to their writing skills how much they read, or whether they read classics or more contemporary, easier novels. What's even more concerning is that they can as well easily express their ideas in other forms, be it verbal or artistic communication. As much as I want to splatter all my accumulated ideas onto this blank page, it is not easy for me--their truth is not my truth. That relativistic conclusion I reached yields me no comfort or consolation. Crushing a printer cartridge and ink-letting would theoretically be a more efficient method of conveying ideas than leaving my mechanical pencil and I to manually attempt to express ourselves.

This blank page acts as a representation of my weakness. I know of people who just write on and on, non stop, having a steady, almost musical, flow of words cascading out of their unrestricted brains. It almost seems like they have this supernatural capability of infusing emotion and coherence into their writing as they hastily yet gracefully glide their hand across the page with deliberate thoughts. On the other hand, behold my own experience, where crumpling up a whole word-filled page frequently becomes more worthwhile then erasing half the material I have written, considering that those words generously selected to survive are usually still not fit enough for preservation. By now, you might be getting the impression that this might be due to a writers block type scenario. If so, my problem is that I have had this creative block all my life. Still no consolation there.

This very affinity I have towards rational thought seem to act against my involvement in the pool of ideas, blocking expression of thoughts originating from a place greater than the puny rational area of our brains. As a result, my thoughts are sometimes incomprehensible even to my own conscious self. It is almost as if this introversion endeavours to pull me towards a heinous form of selfishness--while art (which encompasses language art) is inherently selfish by itself, the thought and intent to inspire and connect through art is, however, not. The very decision to communicate thoughts and partake in the evolution of ideas is an act of defiance--a refusal to live just for oneself but rather for others. This blank page ultimately acts an insult. It is nothing much more than a tangible portrayal of my dark and vicious inclination towards living only for me, secluding myself from a haven of belonging.

Then again, none of this changes the fact that, as I said, I enjoy writing. I enjoy it enough that this blank page also acts, in poetic fairness, as a difficult but manageable challenge I gladly accept (I assure you that no printer cartridges were harmed in the conception of this work). Thinking of the bigger picture, while it might be my aspiration to climb up the mountain and chase after the dragon guarding the gold, I'll gladly descend down the mine shaft to search for treasure another way if need be. At the same time, it is my hope that along the journey, I will discover more about this elusive creative block and pinpoint the little hidden chinks it has along its behemothic armor. After all, with due time and effort, I managed to mutate this blank page to a very ironic essay that shall be a contribution of mine to the pool of ideas. Let this be encouragement for all who might be walking in the same shoes as yours truly to never accept defeat and just keep writing about what you want to shared to the world. Through this essay, I urge you to make sure your current page is not blank before you flip to the next one.

A/N: I'm kind of frustrated that I got a low mark in my English Language Arts test, where you had to write some sort of essay. I attribute it to how terribly slow I write, and how superficial my content turns out to be :P I need someone to help me..