Why I write?
I often get asked what I keep scribbling behind those invisible doors of narcissism. I don't call
myself a writer, never even considered myself as one, but these tiny little locutions, these
emotions are like my breath to me. They are something that held me, that came and never left.
My confidant, my refuge, my whole own kingdom, in which I was allowed to live a thousand
lives, far away from all the projections and confinements, in which I am the creator, and the
destroyer, of my happiness and misery, where I could touch and feel the existence of every
human, place, sentiment and thing. When it took over me, I was staring at a blank page of a
crumpled notebook, on the backbench of a classroom, disinterested and ignorant of a lecture,
lost, just like a sunset in barren sky highlighting the gloominess of all the lifeless trees. Beautiful
to see, but traumatic to touch. It was as if there was paper and ink, but my words have been lost
into oblivion. The
reason this scribbling got marked in my heart is that, though it took a lot of time, but eventually
that stare got closure; turning that blank paper full; as if the dawn has approached me again.
A little later, it seemed as if every person I meet and see was just a
combination of scattered words, a gaze of empty eyes, brimming with hope, an urge to provide
him with just a little alignment; as I permutate the clothes in my closet or punctuations on the
pavement, or the way those To-Do’s
flutter in every ounce of my mind; because they were too tired of being abandoned repeatedly at
the hands of
those who touched, held them; only to have a proper glance and taste of, and were left when
found rich and abundant. The kind of rich that demands the love of a soul.
And When I gave in to it, I allowed myself to feel all of it- that sting: of fear, anger, pain, disgust
and joy- that surrounds you, that lives in you; I breathe in those moments, and die a thousand
times in each one of it.
There were times I stopped pouring words out of my heart, because my own cup was drooping,
and I cared too much about how the flavor of my potion will taste like to others, and also
lingered for a perfect timing, or angle, or a frame that lets me generalize it to the masses. I
realized it late that humans, sitting at the top of the eco-pyramids are individually exceptional. A
paradoxical blend that aspires to be unique, yet feels the euphoria as they find pieces of their
selves in others.
I may still not understand the hashtags and the magic of those three dots, because social media
is a mirage that creates a perfect gleaming life in front of you. The one which now controls how
to eat, sleep, live and even to feel.
I can never be satiated with those one-liners, that contemporarily compete with one another to
be called art, on whose hands literature is exploited, every single day. Maybe because mine is a
vintage soul whose thoughts are always vagabonding boundlessly. And moreover, Art doesn't
competes. Doesn't needs survival. It lifts you, and those around you, it is the aura and the most precious jewel one can have, that gets noticed without any spotlight.
For all I can say, this now, is perfect because from this moment, I will not only allow myself to
be, but I decide- to never block my own roads again.