“If other people do not understand our behavior—so what? Their request that we must only do what they understand is an attempt to dictate to us. If this is being “asocial” or “irrational” in their eyes, so be it. Mostly they resent our freedom and our courage to be ourselves. We owe nobody an explanation or an accounting, as long as our acts do not hurt or infringe on them. How many lives have been ruined by this need to “explain,” which usually implies that the explanation be “understood,” i.e. approved. Let your deeds be judged, and from your deeds, your real intentions, but know that a free person owes an explanation only to himself—to his reason and his conscience—and to the few who may have a justified claim for explanation.”― Erich Fromm, The Art of Being (Source: Goodreads)
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
I love writing. I can do it anywhere, anytime. Scribble. Or type. Think about it. Or pour my heart out. Any way I like it. There are no rules. Maybe you think there are, but believe me, there are not. How awesome is that? I can just think of something, or make stuff up, write it down.
I have a voice. Like you. You may not know it. You may not think it. But you do. Find it. Use it. Like I do.
Do I want to share it? Keep it to myself? It is up to me. I am in charge. And I love it. There are so many options. I can decide. I have control. Or maybe I just let go. Who knows? I just start, just do. Discover how great I can be. Am. Or how bad I suck. It doesn’t matter either way.
I don’t need to be a reader. I know that now. I thought I had to, but no more. I just have to want to write. And I do. And I do.
I can look different. I can look the same. I can not be seen. I can be lifelike. Fake. Whole. Or broken. I can get mean. I can be gentle. I can be me. Or somebody else. Anyone else. I get to pick.
I don’t have to wait. I can do it now. Here.
I can post. Share. Or not. Now, or later. I can be safe, or seek out danger. For real, or just on the page. And what is real? When I write, it becomes real. As real as can be. As real as I want. As you want it to be. For you. I just wrote it. You read it. It is my gift to you. To me. Take it, leave it. I want it, I have it. You can have it. If you want it.
I can tell a story. My story. Somebody’s. Anybody’s. I can be truthful. Or lie. And it is all right. It is all good. Or bad. It really does not matter. But I do. I just do. I just enjoy. I hope you do too.
I wish you well.
- Did you know about Indonesia’s rich literary scene? | Discover Writers and Stories from Indonesia!
DW Books visits Indonesian writers and poets Sapardi Djoko Damono, Linda Christanty, Azhari Aiyub and Oka Rusmini.
- Amy Lee – Speak To Me
- Postman – She Knows
- Red Hot Chili Peppers – Dark Necessities
- Jane’s Addiction – Been Caught Stealing
- How To Destroy Angels – The Space in Between
- Trentemøller – Moan
- VITALIC – Poison Lips
- Radiohead – Daydreaming
- Linkin Park – What I’ve Done
- Sub Urban – Freak (feat. REI AMI)
[Previously published on Twan’s Newsletter]