Writing has been my primary field of interest for as long as I can remember. Yet it took me a few more years after my schooling—and a lot of unpromising, unyeilding struggles—to get to where I am.
Although, from here are visible the two contrasts: I can see the vignettes of writing that made me, and the gleam of writing that shall make me. To the tunes of this muse, I choose to dance. To the flow of this stream, I prefer to stay afloat, aboard the paper boat of my imagination.
When the dark sky of nothingness falls, I pluck thoughts out of the void, to fill my bucket of conversations. From the eyes that bleed emotions to the heart that speaks the truth; from the hands that embrace togetherness to the feet that stand firmly throughout this voyage; and from the nerves that pump passion to the sparks that enliven the mind countlessly, there is so much to express yet nothing to show.
When I am at my desk, I wish to not speak but interact, to not hear but listen. Writing is, after all, the last thing that I want to do first. Always. It is a conversation that I have with myself.
The mysteries and musings
Called upon by the yearning one.
That which once was an escape
Is now a Source… Reveal before it, one by one.
The haunting shrieks of thoughts
That cut off your retrieves
That talk through your mental voice.
Embrace them; You don’t have a choice.
The embarked Soul—
Set forth in a paper boat—
Toward the unexplored,
Unfolds the uncertainties,
On the folded paper boat.