Why do I write?
This question has been baffling me since time immemorial. But I can never say that it is because of just one thing when it really is not - and we all know, that of course, there is nothing absolute in this life (except the truth perhaps, that when you are born, you are bound to die). It is weird as it may sound, it seems like finding my peace in paradox. I believe we all write because we need to prove something, because there is that nagging need in all of us to prove to the world that we existed…that we all have been ‘here,’ one time or another. And proving it has taken me…
So far – journeying on an uncharted path – as writing has allowed me to dwell in darkness and live in the light. It has allowed me to enjoy the eloquent silence and torment myself in mute pandemonium. It gives me the chance to deconstruct and reconstruct everything that makes me. It allows for me to go as deep as I can, and sometimes experience superficiality. It allows me to continuously reinvent myself, to gradually see myself in destruction. It permits me to create the plausible out of the impossible – like making fire moisten and letting water burn. Through it I am allowed to sustain what it is to live and to die. Because of it I know how it is to be within or without.
Through words, I conceive other worlds, another place where heaven can be touched and the air can be tasted. A place where I can desire creations beyond my reach. Through words, I am empowered to overcome all pain, angst, solitude and desperation. I am driven to search for hope, bliss, sweetness and beauty. Though these same words I am reborn, I am redeemed. I am made perfect by my beautiful imperfections.
Writing is my sanctuary in the midst of chaos.
Writing is my salvation.
This question has been baffling me since time immemorial. But I can never say that it is because of just one thing when it really is not - and we all know, that of course, there is nothing absolute in this life (except the truth perhaps, that when you are born, you are bound to die). It is weird as it may sound, it seems like finding my peace in paradox. I believe we all write because we need to prove something, because there is that nagging need in all of us to prove to the world that we existed…that we all have been ‘here,’ one time or another. And proving it has taken me…
So far – journeying on an uncharted path – as writing has allowed me to dwell in darkness and live in the light. It has allowed me to enjoy the eloquent silence and torment myself in mute pandemonium. It gives me the chance to deconstruct and reconstruct everything that makes me. It allows for me to go as deep as I can, and sometimes experience superficiality. It allows me to continuously reinvent myself, to gradually see myself in destruction. It permits me to create the plausible out of the impossible – like making fire moisten and letting water burn. Through it I am allowed to sustain what it is to live and to die. Because of it I know how it is to be within or without.
Through words, I conceive other worlds, another place where heaven can be touched and the air can be tasted. A place where I can desire creations beyond my reach. Through words, I am empowered to overcome all pain, angst, solitude and desperation. I am driven to search for hope, bliss, sweetness and beauty. Though these same words I am reborn, I am redeemed. I am made perfect by my beautiful imperfections.
Writing is my sanctuary in the midst of chaos.
Writing is my salvation.
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