I’ve known for a very long time that I am a person of written words. I’ve always been a writer of sorts: when I was younger, I used to write articles somewhere that allowed my parents and their friends to read and praise, a phenomenon that quickly discouraged me from publishing there due to the rebelliousness of teenage years; as of right now, in my high school years, I write for the school’s newspaper, and occasionally on social media; I have a habit of keeping private ramblings in the privacy of my notes app, one-liners and streams of consciousness alike.
To be clear, I love many forms of expression: there is an irreplaceable satisfaction in getting the perfect shot, finding a combination of colors in paint that you’d never imagine would work, letting my fingers press themselves along the piano keys, even the anticipatory silence before the performance of a spoken word. The joy I find in each form is unique; there is something about written language, however, that forces me to express better, fuller, and more authentically than any other form of expression. From experience, I am more attuned to the subtlety of each choice of vocabulary, the fine shifts in meaning with different sentence syntaxes, the natural rhythm of prose when everything is in order. Most importantly, the written word allows me two privileges: it allows me to be accurate with what I write, and it allows me to be vulnerable without shame.
Lately, I realized that I wanted a writing-space for myself. I want a space that’s not too public, so that I can hide my writings from the rest of my world if need be. But I do not want to keep my thoughts completely to myself. I’d still like to imagine that there could be even an audience of one that might want to hear my thoughts on things, as narcissistic as that may be. I’d like a space that allows me to let my sentiments lead where my keyboard clicks, with willingness to take responsibility for my beliefs, and to record my thoughts as they perch in my mind. I find myself having so many thoughts, good and bleak and anxious and curious alike, that disappear within a moment of being brought into my mind. I want a space where I can store remnants of these fleeting ideas and epiphanies: I want to write them down, for others and for my future self, so that not only do I hold my opinions with more consideration and nuance, but that I have some proof of what the past version of me was like. I’d like to remember the pieces of myself I’d left behind, and I would like something to be remembered by.
This blog, then, hidden deep in the vast World Wide Web, is such a space. Fiernacht came into being out of a line that’s been stuck in my head for the longest time: I do not want to go gentle into that good night—or any night, for that matter, good or otherwise. This, in principle, is my guide for this blog: it will be my carving-mark on the world, and it will be lead by a wholehearted fiercity. It may be in English or in Chinese, or maybe both; it will be both a reflection and an examination of my times, and it will include essays about anything and everything that I have thought about enough to warrant jotting down. I will speak honestly, thought not always without fault, and I will always stand to be corrected. I will attempt to put into words experiences and feelings beyond what language is capable of, and, because of this, I will most definitely fail, but I will—clichéd as it may be—try my best.
This blog is evidence that I am here, and that, one day, I was here, and we’re here because we’re here because we’re here, because it’s turtles all the way down, and I’m here, you see, I was. I am.
With anticipation and tremendous hope,
Greyknock