Recorder_of_Ishmael
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- Apr 1, 2026
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Dear writers and readers alike,
My phone battery is at 3 percent. The sun is getting in my eyes. You see, the window sill is made up of marble, and after today's morning shower, the leftover water is reflecting strong sunlight.
That's besides the point. There isn't really one to this rant. Though if I were to assign one, it would be realisation. Just before I started writing this post, I took a nice and long glance at the back of my fingers. That's because I noticed something curious. The hairs between my knuckles and the first finger's joint had grown markedly, yet I never observed them growing.
Each passing day this stack of such seemingly unflattering realisations keeps growing. While they may be extremely mundane to anyone sane, to me they read that time is passing, fast. Yet, I cannot move on. I cannot produce. I have been stuck in a loop. Always consuming, sometimes appreciating, but never being able to convey. To add. To improve.
It's funny, I wish to contribute, but the more my wish deepens the more I am appalled by my lack of talent and discipline. it's hard work really, that I cannot commit to. Always seeking some perfect imaginary circumstances, knowing full well the only path to truly expressing oneself is unconditional.
It's ironic too. My reveries are fantastical, right? In theory, given how much time I spend on them each day, I should be a master at brewing all sorts of amazing fantasies for people's amusement, no? Now, that's some day-dreaming...
I digress again. The committing bit that I was referring to in the title, it's not related to commitment in terms of hard work. Rather, I was referring with regards to committing to a story, a piece of art more broadly, and committing to playing a character. Because that's one way to make great art, I believe.
Setting aside my convoluted philosophy aside, and knowing well this perhaps isn't the best place to hold a symposium on how to make great art (I know you people), what I mean in a more direct sense is that take my name for instance. Recorder of Ishmael. I chose an epithet for a reason— I wanted to present my story (Whrest) from the perspective of a recorder of events. However, that didn't quite pan out, for various reasons, including just plain old logistics and laze. Still, I would like to go by Roi if that's alright.
I was just so conflicted and it didn't seem viable when I first started writing. Taking a step back, the whole reason why I set out on this journey is because I wanted to make a more spontaneous and improvised story which, despite no matter what restraints, I wanted to complete. Never have I been able to complete a work faithfully in earnest. I am afraid it will be a long time before I end up completing something of significance. And that would be alright, don't get me wrong. But time changes a lot of things. But what if I end up betraying the spirit in which I started writing? That is what I am afraid of. Time steals, time rots. It gnaws at my ambitions and ability to feel. Or that's how it seems to me.
Anyway, like I said, I know you guys. I have been here before, though it's been a while. Never interacted much. But I know the sincere passion you guys have for creating and helping each other grow. If there is any such thing as conclusion to this long winded rant, then it is, I hope that I can find likewise people. Something to cling to for hope.
Yeah, that's about it.
Let's see if I can complete atleast one story.
Thanks for reading.
My phone battery is at 3 percent. The sun is getting in my eyes. You see, the window sill is made up of marble, and after today's morning shower, the leftover water is reflecting strong sunlight.
That's besides the point. There isn't really one to this rant. Though if I were to assign one, it would be realisation. Just before I started writing this post, I took a nice and long glance at the back of my fingers. That's because I noticed something curious. The hairs between my knuckles and the first finger's joint had grown markedly, yet I never observed them growing.
Each passing day this stack of such seemingly unflattering realisations keeps growing. While they may be extremely mundane to anyone sane, to me they read that time is passing, fast. Yet, I cannot move on. I cannot produce. I have been stuck in a loop. Always consuming, sometimes appreciating, but never being able to convey. To add. To improve.
It's funny, I wish to contribute, but the more my wish deepens the more I am appalled by my lack of talent and discipline. it's hard work really, that I cannot commit to. Always seeking some perfect imaginary circumstances, knowing full well the only path to truly expressing oneself is unconditional.
It's ironic too. My reveries are fantastical, right? In theory, given how much time I spend on them each day, I should be a master at brewing all sorts of amazing fantasies for people's amusement, no? Now, that's some day-dreaming...
I digress again. The committing bit that I was referring to in the title, it's not related to commitment in terms of hard work. Rather, I was referring with regards to committing to a story, a piece of art more broadly, and committing to playing a character. Because that's one way to make great art, I believe.
Setting aside my convoluted philosophy aside, and knowing well this perhaps isn't the best place to hold a symposium on how to make great art (I know you people), what I mean in a more direct sense is that take my name for instance. Recorder of Ishmael. I chose an epithet for a reason— I wanted to present my story (Whrest) from the perspective of a recorder of events. However, that didn't quite pan out, for various reasons, including just plain old logistics and laze. Still, I would like to go by Roi if that's alright.
I was just so conflicted and it didn't seem viable when I first started writing. Taking a step back, the whole reason why I set out on this journey is because I wanted to make a more spontaneous and improvised story which, despite no matter what restraints, I wanted to complete. Never have I been able to complete a work faithfully in earnest. I am afraid it will be a long time before I end up completing something of significance. And that would be alright, don't get me wrong. But time changes a lot of things. But what if I end up betraying the spirit in which I started writing? That is what I am afraid of. Time steals, time rots. It gnaws at my ambitions and ability to feel. Or that's how it seems to me.
Anyway, like I said, I know you guys. I have been here before, though it's been a while. Never interacted much. But I know the sincere passion you guys have for creating and helping each other grow. If there is any such thing as conclusion to this long winded rant, then it is, I hope that I can find likewise people. Something to cling to for hope.
Yeah, that's about it.
Let's see if I can complete atleast one story.
Thanks for reading.
