Tag Archives: writing

I write because…

I write because I know, one day, once again, like many times before, I will feel like tearing everything up. Burning down the diaries. Deleting everything there ever was.

But till then, I shall write.

I write because I am full to the brim with things to express. And by brim I mean a height of a hundred feet above my head.

I will catch those thoughts with a butterfly net, and write.

I write because sometimes, I get tired of selling smartphones, selling products, selling promises. I crave to be honest, transparent, open.

I write because I want to paint large canvases, sing out loud, bring down the house with an electric guitar.

But till the time I have only a fountain pen or a keyboard, I shall write.

I write because I know I can make small talk if I have to, but when I bump into people, it hardly is small talk.

I write because I happened to meet a beautiful lady at a concert, who told me she had read what I had written. She mentioned she hadn’t said anything, because she had related to it too much and too strongly. Because she had found expression in what I had written, for what she had only felt.

I write because I know how to live with vulnerability, with sensitivity. Because I have not let the hard times harden me, or the bad guys kill me.

I write because one day, as I was walking into a party, knowing the first thing I would do when I got the chance was to delete the status update I had foolishly posted, I was told by someone that I had inspired them.

And despite the heart that had perhaps opened up too much, I decided to let it be.

I write because I know that conflicting, contradictory emotions can exist together, all at once. The first time a poem of mine was published, and my mother happened to find it, her heart had swelled with pride, but her eyes were soaked in tears.

I write because I dream of a world where we don’t have to pretend that everything is alright, when it isn’t.

I write because I dream of a world where we don’t have to pretend that everything isn’t flowery, beautiful, rocking, when in fact it is.

I write because I know I’m not a writer, and I have no set standards to attain.

In a world that is quick to judge you for your looks, to note you for your dresses, to look at you for your legs or your hair, I write to assert my humanness.

I write to feel less alone.

I write because I don’t give a damn what people think.

Or at least try to.

I write in order to live.

I write because I must.

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The Waterbakery

If you come looking for me
I will be sitting by the corner
Blowing bubbles, and floating away
With them

I will be glowing like the glinting ocean
Under a full moon sky
I will be whispering to the breeze caught in
The branches of timeless trees
I will be singing lullabies to babies
In their tiny silver cocoons
Cradling them to sleep.

If you come looking for me in the child
Then it is in the mother that you will find me.

If you come looking for me
I will be in the little brick house
Sifting between shades of cherry red and a very plum pink
I will be sitting by the golden fireplace
Baking water

If you play the tambourine to call out to me
You will find my silhouette swaying against the light
But when you come to speak to me, you’ll see
That I’m no longer there.

If you come looking for me in a moment
You will find me lost somewhere in ephemerality.

If you come looking for me in my words
You will not succeed
Because as soon as you touch them
They will vanish

Soon, these words will fade into paintings
Soon, these rhymes will take the shape of abstract forms
Soon, these adjectives will become colours
And the verbs, textures

If you come to find me in a book
Then as you open it, the pages
Will tear themselves up and drift away
And the letters will dance in the air
Like birds in a formation

Soon, this stream of consciousness will flow into
And become
A steam of unconsciousness.

It is then that the water would have truly been baked
It is then that I will know it’s ok
To be gone.