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.