I am not a regular writer nor do I put together words that are legendary. My compositions are not timeless.
I seldom write, once or maybe twice in lonely blue moon, only when my heart gets so heavy that I am unable to contain the ache of holding it all back. Only then I spill it all out on the first thing that I get hold of.
I write because there is so much to write about so many reasons to write for. I write because I am blessed, because I’m thankful. I have a story to tell, secrets to share, confessions to make, sins to repent as the guilt consumes me like a plague.
I write because I have senses.
For I smell the earth after the first rain, so refreshing and fragrant, it fills my nostrils and goes deep down my bosom. Because the flowers on my father’s grave are still fragrant.
I write because I hear the birds at dawn, the rustle of autumn leaves. I hear a lonely mother cry in grief under the crumbling roof. I listen to the call of prayer from the
mosque around the corner. The hopeless pleas of a slave locked in a dark cell still echo in my ears.
I write because I see. I see the green pastures, the crimson deserts and the sun that sets every day. As I gaze into the night the stars gather into a constellation that reflects my imagination.
I look at the toothless smile of a toddler and explode with joy. I see the helplessness of a wife when her husband is on his deathbed. I want to share her pain and weep with her until her sobs seep into my soul.
I see far as my vision allows. Children are born and somewhere in another world severed bodies lie in a heap of flesh.
I write because truth glares at me right in the eye and yet the system tells me to lie.
I write because I live among the blind, deaf, dumb and indifferent. I stare at my own reflection in the mirror and wonder who I am. And then I close my eyes on this world.
I write because I can feel, the cool breeze caressing the skin on my cheek, the sea kissing my feet. I know the desperate touch of a lover, his outstretched arm clutching at my wrist and the pain is so much that I sink my nails deep into my palm debossing crescents that take days to fade.
I write as beads of sweat drip down my forehead or the winter frostbites tear my skin.
I write because I think. My mind is a state of havoc and my heart is a holocaust.
I write as I wait. As mornings turns into nights and days turn into weeks, months and years. I write as I change the calendar on my wall.
I write because I’m desperate. I am angry. I’m sad. I’m agitated. I mourn through my words. My words are in harmony with my thoughts. At times I’m at constant battle with myself. My words are venom and sometimes a love-song.
I write for the love of writing, for a fever that burns deep within me. I write for I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t write. I write for I am afraid I’d not have written enough before I meet my eternal fate.
And before my final date comes and death knocks at my door, I wish to write volumes. I wish to write until my pen stops bleeding and my knuckles go white. Until there is nothing left to write and I feel whole.
I write because I have a lust for writing- a yearning that’s beyond measure.
I’m not a regular writer. I seldom write. But when I do I put myself into it