Writing for Me

Most of the times I write not because there is something I want to tell the world but rather because there are issues I want to converse with myself. I write for me first. My eyes, my ears, they eat first. External eyes only feed on the leftovers. The million pores of my skin become a million ears through which my words reach the inner depths that make the core of this very self – and only in that way do my soul listen. To say I write to satisfy the reader or the editor will be an absolute travesty of this discourse.  For me, writing isn’t about being perched on the literary stratosphere. Many strive to impress, to break through, and to be that shooting star thrusting from the Milky Way.  As for me, my expedition is delineated by each word that I type, every time when I type. Each phrase. Each syllable and every metaphor. 

Although words sometimes elude me, they never cease drumming within the walls of my skull, seeking the right passage down to my fingertips. They are always there day and night; these fecund words trapped inside my head, swelling and scrapping like sentient beings, wanting to tell stories, to say something. When they do, it’s like a nirvana of some sort – a mystery I can’t quite place my finger on yet I know it’s a destiny for which I was born to reach.  It makes me feel somewhat like a pilgrim. That is why when someone asked me yesterday why I write I said, for the first time, ‘I don’t know’. 

Today as I resume conversations with myself, I can feel once again that the waters of my membrane had long broken, and that over the past few weeks, I’ve been pregnant with numerous lives that are soon to take residence on my pages – worlds on which my meditations can perhaps be comprehended, at least by myself.