why do I write ? I write because I can. This is the one selfish endeavor I indulge in which sometimes can be the least selfish thing I do. I don’t look at how many views a post gets, how many people comment, I’ve never been freshly pressed. I have never taken this seriously.
However, I am critical of my work, I care. Just not about what you have to say- as much as I should-I should strive for building an audience: add gratifaction to this potpuri of self contentment, but I do this for me. I have found time and again that I am inept at maintaining a journal- at documenting any part of my life- yet when I go through the posts of this site they are incredibly personal, even the ones which are seemingly cold and distant. I have also found that being honest on this site is very rewarding to myself. It is an act of cowardice clothed in bravery; no one knows and yet the whole world CAN see.
I don’t think an average reader would want to read me pontificating my tiny blog which cant even be called that but like I said, I don’t care.
I do this under an assumption that no-one reads. I do it with the same emotion of an internet troll who doesn’t consider that their words ‘might’ actually reach the person whom they launched a diatribe against.
I can say : I create. I think that’s beautiful; it is art that I can claim, that is mine. I write in a language I don’t speak and have an audience whom I will never know. This makes me feel more.
Why do I write ? I write because I can. It’s that simple.
I talk in a language that’s different from yours, I write in another,one that voices my deepest thoughts. I converse with strangers and speak in a tone That I’d never identify as my own.
I twist tales in a borrowed tongue My own vernacular, my mother tongue Is one I speak but know not how to read or write It’s not a matter of shame Neither of pride.
I think and express in the language that was abundant That spoke to me the most The speech that was taught as poised and posed That was essential and needed not for me but for all those Who would eventually seek my company.
I talk in a language acceptable to most And yet in times of dire need In anguish and pain and joy and sorrow Or even as I narrate my own prose It feels more foreign than The cities I’ve moved to and left in a night It feels more fake than the faux gold hoops I bought Under the bridge on a sweaty Mumbai night The accent betrays me Perhaps it’s the unconscious discrimination I fear I attract Perhaps the want of fitting in Pushes me away.
I walk down roads like this Imagining that they lead to greater ways; Beyond a river crossing my own Terrabetia lays. I imagine I’m the protagonist in a novel I read sometimes I’d Chanel the characters, even those with more boring lives than mine.
I’d call myself a counterfeit But aren’t we all that in the end, pretending, Understanding, Ultimately evolving?