A different definition of writing

writing

Writing is not only about expressing ideas or telling a story. Whereas the aforementioned is true, writing goes beyond this, even for philosophy writing too.

How can writing be defined?

Writing is about creating moments. A moment is created when meeting a person, an event, an idea even if it is an internal subjective one. It’s like being hooked and digging deeper. Writing is about the perpetuation of that moment, which can go through fluctuations along the writing exercice.

On parallel, the reader will be hooked on that moment and will go through fluctuations as well. Being emotional or rational, or both ideally, the fluctuation of both the writer and the reader, will propel them into the ongoing moment crafted by writing.

That moment is like a runway show: colours, shapes, emotions, concepts, themes will showcase for the writer and the reader. Often, the writer is hooked but not the reader; maybe a different reader would be. That’s the risk of creativity specially in writing.

The worse kind of writing is the one that stops the moment. Or the one that doesn’t create any moment. The writing that doesn’t pick up what’s left and go further with it, is the kind of forgotten books shortly after reading them.

Writing means a constant search for the upcoming word and idea.

Meeting a new “other”, might be a person or a place, an idea or a picture, an event or a book etc., is the ultimate goal of a writer.

If not, what would writing be?

100 words or less

beautyThe heart is broken and words are useless.

It’s not depression but deception.

Death has no name. Fear has a new face and the enemy is inhaled. Hold your breath!

Solitude is confusing and silence is scary.

Towns have become ghost towns. Humanism is missed.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.

Can beauty save the world?

 

 

The Prophet by Khalil Gibran

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My hometown famous writer, Khalil Gibran (1883-1931), was a Lebanese-American writer, poet and a painter, also considered a philosopher although he rejected this title. Gibran’s life has been described as one “often caught between Nietzschean rebellion, Blakean pantheism and Sufi mysticism”. He wrote about love, happiness, religion, justice, soul, death, life and so on.

He wrote his most famous book, The Prophet in 1923, while in New York. I personally think it has been very much inspired by Nietzsche’s Thus spoke Zarathustra. The Prophet is divided into chapters dealing with love, marriage, children, giving, eating and drinking, work, joy and sorrow, houses, clothes, buying and selling, crime and punishment, laws, freedom, justice and all topics of human questionning.

I picked this paragraph of it for all of us to meditate upon:

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This book is a must-read. I would love to know how do you interpret this prose poetry. Please leave you comments down below

How to save the world?

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If I have to recommend one writer, it would be him: Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Simply, magnificent! And my favorite book is : The Brothers Karamazov! It is a masterpiece.

Dostoyevsky wrote this quote in his book: The Idiot.

It can be understood as God. God is beauty. So, God/beauty will save the world.

It can also be understood as love. Love is beauty and only love is what we need to make the world a better place.

What about beauty and aesthetics? Is art the world savior? It can also be an interpretation for this quote.

Now things get complicated with this quote taken from: The Brothers Karamazov:

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So, how would the world be saved? If God and the devil are fighting in “beauty” which is in the heart of the man, does it mean love will save us all? This quotes describes to me the tragic human condition. What do you say on this?

The Artist (the end)

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It was grey outside, but the landscape stretches out so far. It was bigger than he could recall. The trees are almost black and crows are looking at him. Then he sees his mom and dad. They look so young, smiling at him. He ran to them and hugged them tight. He doesn’t know how long the three of them stayed like this. It is such a warm feeling.

–          I’m sorry if I made feel so sad and so embarrassed all your life but please understand me that C was dying anyway. I wanted to spare her the pain!

–          You are forgiven my dear, no more sadness, no more sorrow. We hope that you are fine and happy here and that the staff treats you well. Anyway, you look so beautiful and strong!

–          Thank you mom, thank you dad. Yes I am fine and they are all very nice to me. I paint a lot to save the world. Look how great it is now!

–          That’s true, it is wonderful, and you’ve done such a great job.

And the sun pointed out in the sky. The green colors were bright. Crows gathered to witness the magic work of a great artist. Suddenly birds were singing and flowers blossoming. Everybody was joyful. They stayed there forever, for an eternity that no one can take away from him. It was an eternal instant of shapes and colors and melodies. It was the eternal instant of love!

                                                                          ***

The Man in White and The Woman in blue, alongside the whole staff in white and blue stood by The Artist’s bed. He was motionless; “no pulse” said The Man in White. The Artist died in his sleep; he died for a trip that never existed, he died for a dream that was dead before it was born, he died for a world that never knew him! Outside, it was an early spring!

 

The Artist (VIII)

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The Man in White kept asking about an eventual visit of relatives of The Artist. Usually visits are booked in advance. No one announced anything. So what was this trip he mentioned? The Man in White has been worried about The Artist: the latter hardly leaves his room, he rarely talks. These were serious signs of some troubles. “So again, no trip, no eventual visit, no random movements that could alert the security guys who were already on alert”, he thought.

Reading his mind, The Woman in Blue has been worried for days now. To her, The Artist, who is a patient like all the others, is no ordinary guy. She remembers a woman bringing him to this place many years ago. She did say that he lost his parents and was in many foster houses. Many foster parents refused to keep him for being crazy and a murderer. Then, he has no parents, no sisters and brothers, and no foster parents of course, no relatives. And that trip was an enigma wrapped in mystery. Or was it imaginary?

The Artist (VII)

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Guilty? Sometimes he does feel guilty for any random reason. It’s not for killing the beautiful C because he killed her to save her from the world’s problems. Whereas he felt bad towards others for not saving them, and for their misunderstanding of his mission.

Today, an idea crossed his mind. “Maybe the world is in turmoil because of me?” he said to himself; “maybe the world will start laughing again if I disappear?” He knew where this idea came from. Heroes have short lives; normal people live long. He was told that he was not like everyone else and he is aware that there is something special in him. He took some pills, for today is a big day, he will have his trip.

Today, the sun was shy and the sky was grey. He was trying to finish his painting of the landscape but everyday he must change colors; the weather is changing. He is tired of the weather and of his blurry vision. There is stillness outside: no birds singing, no people walking. Somehow, he feels lonely and trapped in his own body. Loathing the body for being heavy and disgusting, the soul has to free itself from it. That’s the big trip, the astral trip. As he was falling asleep, he saw himself from above, a laying body on the bed, a stupid heavy body. Now, at last, he can roam around freely.

The Artist (VI)

 

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The Mother is a well fit woman for her age. She works hard, along her husband, The Father, to grow the family business more and more. She always thought that the name “family business” was sadly funny. Her son was crazy and a murderer. They decided, her husband and herself, to have partners in their business. It was a shame that their son can’t inherit nor deal with any job in the real world. Even his paintings are not that good. The amount of bitterness they had to face since The Artist killed his friend was enormous. The best thing they did is to seek for him a professional help by sending him to a specialized unit for special people like him. The diagnosis included: hallucinations, paranoia and so on; she doesn’t even want to remember what the doctors had told them about him.

Although they rarely mention him, The Father and The Mother miss their son. They gave up hope and faith in his recovery. It’s better for all them to be distant from one another. The Artist is in good hands. But they both decided to pay him a visit; a visit they looked forward to and dreaded at the same time. They have mixed feelings towards him: love and fear. Will he be happy seeing them again after all this time? Will he blame them for being careless and harsh on him? Is there any love left in him? Love needs to be nourished and maintained; love is a constant effort and sacrifices. This is what they taught him and they did the opposite.

The Father and The Mother both felt guilty. They tried to hide it by working hard. Guilt never fails to sneak up.

The Artist (V)

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The Artist is no monster. He is a regular man who is capable of unconditional love, just like he was taught to. He loved nature and the world so much that he can’t bare violence and corruption. He never understood that reality is made of different layers; some layers are better left quiet and unseen. Preaching honesty and on the other hand, hiding the truth.

On the contrary, he is a one-dimensional man, built of one dimension and that is love. His love is the stormy flooded kind, just like an endless pouring rain, or an erupting volcano. His love is like a starry night, infinite and dark, yet twinkling with lit dots. Hence, his fight against human pain started. Just like winter covers lands with snow killing plants so they can blossom again in spring. Winter doesn’t dislike flowers; it adores them so it is essential to kill them. Only nature understands this kind of love.

It was his love that brought him to this place surrounded with beautiful gardens. It is the house of the misfits. Residents here are very different from one another. Some people call it a hospital and some others, an asylum. But this place doesn’t fit anywhere; it has no name.

The Artist (IV)

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Gazing through the window at the big garden outside, The Man in White was in deep thinking. If it wasn’t for his chest going up and down, one would say he is a statue, in complete stillness. He was interrupted by The Woman in Blue:
– What’s wrong? Or are you meditating?
– I am trying to think. The more I learn, the less I understand!
– What do you mean?
– How do you define “normal”?
– Normal is the common, like the common sense. Why this question? Asked The Woman in Blue.
– So the norm is what is allowed and accepted by the mass. What we should be and do and think and feel. But we fight all our lives to be different, because only a teenager wants to fit in; an adult wants to fit out. And when the difference appears, it scares us. Why?
– Maybe because it doesn’t look like us and we don’t get it.
– Or maybe because we can’t control it. Millions of people are anxious out there and it is due to oppressive systems and ways of thinking that we have been implementing ourselves with. We are all ticking bombs, some people burst out before others. The moment they do, they become different and scary; therefore we will try to hide them, to imprison them so they are invisible. We, humankinds with our collective consciousness and cultures, have created monsters.
– Are you blaming the system for making The Artist the way he is today?
– Yes I am. We have been fooled by big words and values, all to make us alike, thinking and acting alike; each one of us is a replica of everyone. We have been taught things but reality is different. Reality is full of differences. Life is full of differences. Nature is full of differences. Society is uniformity competing against life.
– Ok, why don’t you let him escape then and have his trip?
– I’m afraid he will be dead because people can’t tolerate life!