Monthly Archives: December 2014

At a Group Reading

It is always at group readings where I realize that that could actually be me someday; up there, reading, reverently repeating each word my soul has heaved onto the paper or the blank white stare of Microsoft Word. I hear their voices; the sweet lull upon the wine-soaked air, the smell of quick, two-minute, half-smoked cigarettes wafting out of their mouths, onto the audience. Their lullaby of words is soft and mellow; sweet and harsh at the same time upon rejected ears. There’s admiration and–at the same time–a longing and a question of ‘Why couldn’t it be me?

There’s always that, right at the end. (Or to be honest, it is there throughout.) It’s always on my mind; my wish to be the one up on that podium, reading something people can applaud to or just listen and enjoy. I want the words my soul heaves out to touch the souls of all who hear or read them. I want the words I’ve moulded out of tears, laughs, and the most inspired moments to make others gasp; to make them feel like I’ve uncovered something that emerged out of the deepest, darkest corners of their souls.

I want them all to see my colours; to witness me in black and white; in print – in words, bled out upon the page.

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I Write Because

I write because I love it. I love the words and how my inner voice recites each word I write like poetry. I love how, as I’m writing now, I hear the music flowing through my ears and my head; the rhythm of my sentences unfettered verse. I write because I feel the words streaming like blood out of my veins. My soul heaves out each word, expression, sentence; every comma, dash, or full-stop.

I write because it makes me feel alive. I feel my heart race, my blood pumping, as the scene unfolds before me. I feel like a creator; the creator of that universe. But so, so human all the while. There is no other moment where I am as alive or human as the moment when I write. There is no moment where I bleed more profusely than the moment where my words become black letters on a page. There is no moment where my muscles tense up, stretch, and flex so hard; no moment where I race as fast, as when my fingers type the words. There is no moment where my soul dances as beautifully, naturally as when I’m quickly drumming the white letters on my keyboard like that native rhythm in that forest somewhere long ago and far away. It makes me feel alive.

I write because I’m young and inexperienced. I write because my writing teaches me about myself. It teaches me about the way my brain connects the dots. It teaches me about my nightmares. It tells me all my deepest secrets and shows me all my darkest fears.

I write because I know just who I am. But I keep finding facets of myself I never knew were there.

I write because I’ll never know exactly who I am. I will keep growing every day into the best that I can be.

I write because it makes me feel like I am good at something; like there is this one thing; this one expression, that defines me; who I am and what I do and who I want to be.

I write because one of my favourite authors, Margaret Atwood said that ‘A word, after a word, after a word is power’. A word, after a word, after a word is immortality in ink.

I write because someday, perhaps in 60 years or so, I’ll die, but this will live forever.


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