This one is called "For the Plot"
You've probably read this on Medium before but pretend you haven't.
It’s been days, and I haven’t written anything new. Well, there’s a bit of falsity in that. It’s been days, and I haven’t written anything worthy of being published. It’s easy to blame my sense of perfectionism, which is a valid reason. But I have watched Whiplash people, and I now have a renewed obsession with excellence. Of course, writing the way I want is torture, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
I was going through my drafts just now, and found some essays I strangely feel proud of. God, typing on the Substack dashboard is such a hassle that I feel the errors are inevitable, bear with me. I want to write a long-ish post, but this dashboard sucks, so straight to the point. This piece marked a somewhat pivotal point in my journey as a person, and I wrote it a couple of months ago. In the next few days, weeks, or months, I will be doing things that will push me beyond the limits I’ve drawn in the sand for myself. And sharing this essay here is to just share why I’m doing this.
Okay, that sounded horrible. Like I was trying to make something quite mundane and boring sound extraordinary. Just read this, I’ll be back (maybe after Chromakopia).
FOR THE PLOT
For the plot…
I told you I was telling a story. That it is my reason for living, the anchor I have tying me to this plane of existence. I told you I was telling the greatest story of all (pardon my arrogance here, but please, indulge a man his excesses); the story of my life. Yet, for the past one month I haven’t written any story, released Marva and then stopped. But I never did stop, I was always telling a story. Every minute I live, every breathe I take; stories that keep writing themselves. Stories I cannot predict the twists and the turns. I had clumsily taken the pen away from the Creator and yet I still watch in horror as they take a life of their own, writing without my input.
For the plot.
Ever since I realized that my life is merely a story writing itself in real time, this has become my mantra; “For the plot.” I do stupid things. Risky things. I plunge myself into the ocean waiting for the water to decide what to do with me; spit me back out or wrap me in its rather cold embrace? Pardon my histrionics
I recently started a new semester, and somehow, I found myself participating in two high-demanding competitions taking place simultaneously. My justification? For the plot. I found my academic life in jeopardy, leaving school at late hours and yet, not once was I shaken.
For the plot. I realized I never really wanted to win those competitions. Yet, I tell my friends and everyone how much I long to win, but in retrospect I think it’s me trying hard to convince myself that I do want to win.
What does it feel like to lose?
Nothing. I read this line in a book about how somethings don’t quite feel like anything. They are what they are; id est quod id est. And I think it’s weird because I realized that I was expected to feel a certain way about not winning. But I couldn’t – for the life of me, my lack of understanding of social cues might be the end of me. I felt nothing about losing except satisfaction. I wanted to lose. I needed to lose. I had to lose. Failing is the only acceptable way to start my apotheosis. I knew this and I manifested it, months ago.
Turns out I have been writing parts and pieces of my story even without knowing what I was doing. I have been in control all along and I never did realize that.
The next chapter is still unwritten, but the pen feels lighter now. Less clumsy, and the ink; bolder. The plot doesn’t suggest growth; it demands it, and as long as I am doing it for the plot, I will be here still telling stories every day.
For the plot, and the glorious apotheosis that awaits…
Sidenote: That semester’s result turned out to be my worst ever lol. and i didn’t edit this piece in anyway. It’s almost 4AM fgs.