So I was looking for another short quote to use for calligraphy practice. Instead of heading over to trusty, old Google, I decided to look for book quotes I ‘clipped’ on my Kindle. And this caught my fancy.
As it was my habit to put the name of the author [of the quote I write], I spent quite a few minutes going back and forth between the ebook and the clipping. For the record, the ebook was The Assassin’s Blade, a Throne of Glass novella by the wicked Sarah J. Maas. I looked at the location, and sure enough a whole paragraph was highlighted. But it wasn’t the quote I wrote. I went several pages more back and forth, and still I could not find those exact words anywhere. I was kinda mystified.
Then I noticed that the highlighted quote has a number at the end. Clicked on that, and there it was. Turns out what I wrote was not really part of the book. Rather, it was my own note regarding the highlighted passages. They were simple enough words, yes, but I deemed them powerful, not knowing they were my own words. My own words. I’m kinda shocked. Like, wow. ?
Gawking aside, I am now not so sure what to make of that quote. As an average human being, I’ve had my share of pain. And the most major of mine can be categorized into two: (1) that sharp, killing pain when my then-best friend left/betrayed me, and (2) the low-key but festering pain of being made to feel that I’ll never be good enough.
In terms of the former, that pain brought out the writer in me. I mean, I’ve been writing most of my lucid life, but never as well as when I was in thrall of that darkness. My best works were the products of my tears and every negative emotion I had. The hurt, the helplessness, the rage, the fury… That’s not even a redundancy because I was just that angry at the time. They all translated into powerful words, my own dark art. In a sense, I became better because of that pain.
The latter is another story. It’s almost dull compared to the blinding nature of the other. It’s the accumulation of seemingly mundane tiny hurts. But over time and taken as a whole, did much more damage. So much more. Like a wound left untreated, it got infected and festered, eating away at the flesh. And the result? A weakened personality. Something with a piece always missing–a hole that can never be filled.
So.. what does all this make me?