why write about the wrong

Why write about the “wrong”?

Why do I always write about something “wrong”? Such stressful thoughts? The topics I choose are by nature “something wrong” that I need to somehow unweave to feel okay. On and off, I’ve been thinking about what my boyfriend said after he read my post. He said he couldn’t finish reading it because I ramble too much about things that are just obviously wrong and annoying. Why care about it, just ignore. Something along this line. Of course I was hurt because he called my rambling ramble! How dare he calls my ramble ramble. I call it ramble just to push down expectations of others on my writing. So that I feel safe from not being criticised as a rambling, because I had already disclaimed that it’s not more than a ramble. Anyway, I understand his point, though. Why do I care about naked women in music clips and every little annoying things happening in the world?
First of all, writing about “annoying things,” for me has a therapeutic effect. There are many annoying things that touch my nerves on daily basis. Lots of them, I would just shrug off and let them pass me through because why not? I like complaining in general but I like to complain about quality things if that makes sense. I can’t complain full-time because I got a life. But there are other things I wouldn’t let go: something so vexing but so intriguing. I almost feel like I have an answer to why and what but I can’t seem to lay out the words from the cloud of texts in my head. (This is actually part of unweaving as well, to answer the question of “why do I always write about something wrong?” I never seem to stop doing this.) It takes time for me to put the pieces of text puzzle to the image of my thought. My intuition comes with senses not the verbal skills unfortunately. Visual, textual, and the feels of touch in my imaginary hand, whatever that means. I love it. Though, I really wish I could write like a very elaborate and articulate philosophers with their thoughts they can play with. So the process of writing itself often gives me the answer. Of if not, the activity of writing becomes my company and that’s good enough.

Secondly, it’s what I do! I’m supposed to see little things and how they all form a chain of system. I’m supposed to think differently, critically, and repeatedly. The feeling of stress, as a matter of fact, becomes a fuel to think and deconstruct ideas to get an answer to “why is it that way and why am I feeling this way about it?” Stress as a fuel, pure curiosity as an engine, I write.

Whenever I write something new, I wonder, if people will read this. And if they did, will they like it? Right after hitting the publish button, I tend to think, ‘this is an awesome topic that anyone interested in life would appreciate.’ But after a few hours, I end up thinking, ‘who would bother to read about this topic.’ I still don’t know what the better ways of presenting my ideas are. The very reason that I started this blog was exactly to present my ideas. I didn’t know what to do with my thoughts and just decided to write somewhere. If that was my purpose, should I be worrying about how to present at all? Well, I think so, to some extent. I don’t want these ideas to drift alone. Instead I want to find somewhere they settle and have some meaning. Connecting is important.

Regarding writing about “wrong” things, I began to think I should write more about plain everyday things as well. I do do it but I don’t post them because I tend to think, “nah, this one doesn’t have much meaning.” Seeking meaning became such a snobbish habit for me. Alas, maybe too much anthropology.

Published by


An anthropology novice with passion for small things. A development worker in a world of imponderabilia.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *