Answer Me

I’ve been reading today, all day, after an excruciatingly painful encounter with reality, a brief nap, and a few blue pills to return to my home of chemical comfort. And there are things I want to ask, things I want to know, things I want to imbibe.


I want to know these people, these writers, these creators of masterpieces, these rays of hope, these masters of empathy, these epitomes of grace and charm.


Who writes such beautiful words on these faceless networks? What do they look like? Do they still have the sparkle in their eyes, the childlike innocence, the unquenchable curiosity to explore life? Or are they lost too? Do they wake up to watch dawn or stay in bed till they’re stale and filled with ennui? Which of them are insomniacs? What are their dreams? What are their nightmares? Do they wake up screaming in the middle of the night? Or, do they wake up quietly to wet pillows, and wetter eyes, not remembering what they’ve been crying about in their sleep? Who calms them down? Do 3 AM conversations with friends help? What is the magic that fuels their words? Do they struggle? Edit? Stare aimless and numb at blank pages and screens? Do they go to bed being held at the waist with delicate hands that they miss during all their waking hours? Or are these hands rough and beautiful? Do these questions even matter? They make beautiful things – and so, is that all that matters?


What do they drink, eat? Are they ever in pain? Are they ever incredibly happy? What are their fears? Do they dream of their teeth falling out or dying alone or losing someone they love to a fire? Do they try to comprehend their fears? Document them? Do they set out to write with a goal? Or do they go on enormously long rants just to sort out what they feel? How do they live? Do they have friends they spend drunken evenings with or do they protect their time fiercely, a mother cat in front of her babies, hissing at passers-by, refusing to part with what is theirs? Are they mundane, do they gossip, do they revel in the failures of others, the flaws of their leaders and gods? Do they wish badly for someone in secret? Do they have a friend they love way more than they should? Who have they lost? How many have they lost? How did they lose them? How often do they water their plants? How do they like their tea? How do they get their pictures clicked? Who do they primarily write for? Who is their muse?

I need these answers. I want to know so many of them so intimately. I want to watch them at their best – at work. I want to watch how they touch the frigid keys of their keyboards. I want to watch how they hold their pens when they write. How fast do they write? Do they scribble through fluidly, without restrictions? Or are they organized enough to confine their words strictly to the lines on the paper? How does paper feel against their skin? How do they decide which word goes where? Do they ever smile at their own creations, as if they contain bits and pieces of their lives? How deep is the impression of ink on their paper? Are they even comfortable with the fact that whatever they write must be publicly acknowledged and appreciated?


Whatever it is that they do, do they know how many lives they touch every single day? Do they care about these lives? Or are their words all they care about?


Let me look on at their lives. Let me connect for real.


Let me break free of shallow conversations and small-talk. When I ask you how you are, tell me you’re anything but ‘fine’. Tell me, because I honestly want to know. I need to know. Trust me, and answer me. Let me freeze my time in photographs of these moments in light and darkness, and in ink. That’s all I’ll ever want. That’s all I’ll be grateful for.



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