WARNING: Those allergic to intangible confessions, abstract glimpses of a human’s soul and English language in a rather grandiloquent and not-of-this-century form,
PLEASE stay away from this serie. ( I wouldn’t want you judging me on this spontaneously combusted fire of words ;0 )
Why do I write?
This question, a matter of introspection to me, arouse in its most earnest state, during one of my rather somber moods – one where a man is swept off his feet by even the flicker of the flames of truth that is buried deep inside his heart. You know, that moment that each person must have experienced when he heard the deep silence of a profoundness throbbing within him.
It was in that moment that my guilt about not embracing enough my feebly stirring passion – a.k.a writing- took the form of a soldier in chains, wanting to aggressively fight his way out of his confines and into the broad sunshine of people’s world. Shadows of thought, long mewling in the bottom of my self, shrieked out in urge now, to be born; and these were no meager shadows, for they were children not merely of the writer’s fingertips or tongue, but of the depth of her human spirit.
At that moment, I realized that I must take the pains to open the gate that bares their entry into the world -. to give the shadow of thoughts a form in words. But an unknown hesitation prodded me to ask that flock of thought, these questions – whence are you from, and why are you at my gate?
Why, why am I seized with the impulse to write. WHY DO I EVEN WRITE?
This question had flitted past my colorful world more than once, failing to receive no more attention than the dust of the desert sand would from a parched wanderer who has newly seen the deceptive mirage of an oasis.
But in the end, its the sand-dust that the wanderer walks with, and it was the question that walked with me. And I? I hushed it with shallow answers we both knew were not so much as close to the truth.
And still, unrelenting, the question would return with the whisper of a moonbeam or at a mood so uncharted by any object of interest. And it would return and pester, and plague, and fester…
…till I couldn’t ignore it any further. That began my voyage into the past to that point where my entire journey as a writer began. Follow me through these posts to behold the story unfold.