Writing Grow Me Wings
“Why do you write?”
Never has this question got me started like it did today.
I am always preoccupied by thoughts – beautifully ugly, incoherently alluring, all-consuming thoughts.
When I can’t make sense of what I am thinking, I write.
Putting pen to paper, I think, is a more polite way of thinking out loud.
But, why do I write, really?
I have questions whose answers birth more dicey questions.
I write not because I have answers to these questions.
I write to ponder on my own questions and hope to find someone with the same questions as mine, in my readers.
I have never intended to hold a pen with the idea of impressing people.
Ever felt like a wingless eagle trapped in a cage with chickens?
You look up the sky and wonder why your soul levitate in sunrise and sunset.
You flap your wings in mock flight as the blue sky lures you.
But you’ve got no wings strong enough to ride winds, so, you write.
You fill words in these blank sheets because you want to take a stranger places, to make you experience a feeling that you can never experience anywhere else.
You scribble, in storylines, poetry, satires, pun and random rants of freedom
Of wind slapping through your hair
Of man, and beast, and all that creep growing small with every height you attain on eagle wings.
You tell these stories with such exactness that it’s fictional texture fades into a fine powder of reality.
You begin to live in a world of your own imagination.
Pulling the world with you.
A whole of caged birds, like you.
In your scribbles they find themselves.
Their voices are restored
Their strength renewed
Their spirit rejuvenated
Their wings regrown
On the wings of you.
This is what writing does to me.
I want to take people to journeys in time and space.
I want to touch hearts, tickle minds, get one started, humour the sullen, induce growth and perhaps, teach life lessons.
The thing is that I fall in love with writing each time because it grows me wings.
It hands over a key to unlock doors to another life – another life that’s many levels above earthly shenenigan.
It offers me an escape from a miserable existence in meaning full possibilities.
It is not just an activity or pastime. Not just a hobby.
It almost seems as though my lifeline is wired to it.
My breathing capacity is measured by the amount of lives I touch with my words.
I live to write.
To breathe letters into space and call it literature.
To shape hearts of monumental proportions at the tip of my pen.
To celebrate the little things that matter.
I used to think that I write for myself— to express what my mouth has limited me to speak up about, to cater my dying need to voice out my thoughts.
But I’ve come to realize that this is all false.
I have already come to terms with the fact that perhaps, it is true that my heart has always been someplace else.
That I was never meant to stay here.
With all the wildness going on in this little head of mine, it would simply be an act of insanity to just leave all the wildness in here to rot.
It’s licking swallowing a bomb and imploding it. I’ll burst into tiny shards.
I rather would let it bloom for the world to witness, to experience, to sip, to inhale, to relish, to live by.
Because when I am in writing, I am in both my purest form and deadliest state. I am not certain as to why this is so.
All I know is I love being a writer— like second nature.
I write to live. Maybe.
It’s an impulse, I can not ignore.
I write about my disturbingly vivid dreams, failures and disappointments, wins and acceptances, kisses and knockouts, embraces and thorn piercings, regrets and rewards.
I write until I get this feeling that I’m writing about someone else.
I write until I reach an exhilarating feeling of depersonalization – the moment when I see mself from the outside, in my purest form.
I write until every piece of poetry I pen down stand as a symbol for every stage in my life.
I write to unburden the horrible things I’ve been carrying and go through life bearing only the useful ones.
To weave words in their most perfect order.
To become a mouthful of stories about this imperfect life. Because this is me flying, on the wings of letters that form words that form sentences that form lines that form verses that become pieces of poetry.
This is me being a writer.
Escaping— holding the keys to whatever universes out there that awaits me.
I am not alone in this, I know. On the 3rd day of every March, the world celebrate every writer.
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