the cynical cycle of writing

I have always written. Hamesha likha hai. Diary, notes app, captions, drafts I never sent, messages at 2am. There is no version of me that didn't.

But here is the thing I only noticed recently. I have never written for myself. Not once. I don't think even once.

Everything I have written, I wrote for someone else to read. Not a specific someone. Not always. Just anyone. The possibility of anyone. Someone could read this. That possibility alone is enough to change the sentence.

And the moment that happens, you have stopped writing for yourself.

(this should probably not be the opening. this is where it started in my head so this is where it starts here.)

It goes further than that though. You don't even write for yourself. You write for a version of yourself.

A person stays one person their whole life. That doesn't change. What changes is the version. And the version changes based on who is around you. The people you are with make the version. So the version is never fully you. It is you plus them.

Which means every time I have written something, I wrote it for a version of me. And that version was made by someone. So I wrote it for the person who made that version. So I wrote it for someone else.

Every single time.

There is no exit inside that sentence. That is what bothers me.

(should I define “version” before using it four times. no.)

And this is where it gets annoying, because I love reading things I have written.

I love it. Not in a shy way. I will go back and read my own messages and think, that was immaculate. An accusatory message: immaculate. A logical reply with the reasons listed out: immaculate. A comeback: perfect.

In conversations I am chaotic. I lose the thread, I go sideways, I say things in the wrong order. But a monologue, when it is just me writing at someone, comes out clear as water. Clear as glass. Whatever you want to call it.

So I love the writing and I don't like the writing. Both.

I don't like it because when I read it back I can see who it was for. I can see which version of me wrote it.

That person is gone from my life. No link. Nothing.
The version of me they made is still here. That one didn't leave.

That is the uncomfortable part. Not the person. The leftover version.

Why writing and not talking. When you speak you go brain, mouth. Short trip. Some system in the middle, sure, but short.

When you write you go brain, arm, hand, fingertips, the pen, the paper. Much more system. Much longer route. And somehow more precise, not less. The distance is what makes it clear.

So the loop.

You write. You write for yourself, allegedly. Actually you write for that one person, or for whoever you would want to read it. Later you read it back. You love it. You also don't like it, because you can see the person and the version sitting inside it. The person is gone. The version stayed. You feel weird. So you write about feeling weird. For yourself. Allegedly.

Aur wapas wahi.

Woh tumhara peecha hi nahi chhodta.

So how do you get peace.

Obvious answer. Write only for yourself. Then you are out of the loop. Fine. Solved.

But is that actually easy. I don't think it is. I think “I am writing this only for myself” is one of the best baits ever invented for writing to someone else. You say it, you believe it, and then you write one sentence you would only ever write if somebody was reading.

I don't know.

I am still trying to figure out how to just write. Flow, water, write. Nobody in the room.

(a real writer would cut this last line. not cutting it.)

This one. I don't know who this one is for either. Probably still not me.

But it is closer.