I write

I write, because the world makes me write. Everything, from political mud puddles to fall of dictators, and the democracies that had gone wrong, fills my notebooks. My words stop at the things that rather catch my heart than my eye. I let my heart command my pen and my mind dictate the diction. What comes out of my pen does not belong to me, but to the world, which plays the Muse to me.

I write because I fear boundaries. I learn discretion at every effort to thwart my writing with censorship. I sugarcoat. I sandwich my message between layers of honeyed terms and decorate it with frills and bows just to please those who come between the reader and me. I scribble before they discourage me. I send it off before they silence my voice.

I write on behalf of those who can’t hold a pen or don’t know the words to pen down their message. I write because, they have faith in my writing and they draw strength from my scribblings.  My words reflect their struggle, their agonies and above all their indomitable power to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I write because, it is my religion, my faith and my conscience. My writing reflects my notion of good and bad, justice and freedom. I become a fighter with the weapons I best trust myself with. My battles do not know bloodshed. Yet, it can disturb someone with the questions I bombard him with, and the sarcasm I bury for someone to step on.

I write because I believe in the power of words. They can be razor blades or rose petals- depending on the person whom the words are directed at. My poetry makes people cry and my prose makes them smile. I believe they not only see me through my writing but also get a glimpse of themselves.

I write because I need to prove my innocence, counter many baseless allegations and bust the misconceptions. My written word is more lasting than the spoken one. My pen speaks more eloquently than my mouth does. My writing carries things I am not brave enough to say aloud. They are there for past reference- for someone to cherish or tear and burn in an autumn fire.

I write because I need to release the overload of emotions I take in from the books I read. I scribble poems on things I have never seen or people I have never met in real life. Gradually I come to realize that I am in love with fiction and treat reality as an unwelcome diversion.

I write because I need to confess the sins I commit in secret and the fantasies I hold close to my heart. I rewrite and publicize them, for the readers to empathise with me. Yet, those who come looking for uniqueness in them instead find universality.

I write because the words make me a timeless traveller. They take me through past, present and future across the seas and continents through all weathers and stop my heart closer to home.

Like many other writers would do, I cry, laugh and bleed words, but still I won’t call myself a writer.