No, it’s not easy to write, especially when the subject is myself. I struggle to communicate to others what I do not have a solid grasp on. I am a specimen I do not look forward to dissect.
I’ve questioned my insights, doubted my perspectives. And as a story takes its form, I question its significance. My mirror is as smeared as anyone else’s.
So why do I write?
I have no clear answer really. I do not have a delusion of grandeur. I only knew that writing eases the thoughts that keep me awake at night. Thoughts that have no meaning until I write them down. Noisy riddles amidst the silence of blackness, I call them, like the insistent chirping of crickets that penetrates even my sedated slumber.
The significance of a life holds meaning only to the one living it. But stories have echoes that transcends the invincible perimeters that separates one life from the other, and it makes its dents and marks in varying debts, just like music.
I write, because it’s the only way this world will make sense to me. It’s how I manage my pains and uncertainties. It’s how I put the abstract pieces of a puzzle together to mean something. I paint a story with words, until an image I can understand takes its form.
I do not write with a subject in mind. I write with an avalanche of seemingly unrelated thoughts, and an overwhelming feeling of sadness and fear. These thoughts are interlaced together only as they are written down.
I guess I just admitted something I’d be judged for. The collateral damage of trying to unbox the person to its barest. Well, I am still a story teller, and I launch echoes that will haunt long after I have ceased to exist.