Lately, I’ve been wondering about what writing means to me.
And why I instinctively avoid writing in first person.
As much as it is an honesty issue, I figure it has much to do with dealing with me.
Every time I run from writing, I run from me.
I don’t like saying statements that would make me cringe when I read it the next time around. I don’t like sounding like an indulgent ten year old. And yes, I do not like situations where I have to contest that my mental age is frozen at fourteen.
I feel like writing. Every damned day.
I feel like opening my eyes, absorbing a moment of beauty, and keeping it there. Just as beautiful. So the world can read the same beauty that I’d seen there, then. And it’s always in wondering, if somebody else smiles the way I do, or loses at least one of the senses to a moment.
Do people smile at a cashier counting coupons, her lips and tongue moving soundlessly to English numerals, with Tamilian phonetics? Can deja vu happen by way of smell? Isn’t listening to someone, with your eyes watching their eyes smile, light up, disappear to places you can’t tell, a wonderful thing? Does anyone watch how they absently smile, and let you in on how their faculties are continually fabricating words, gestures, expressions to translate what they’re processing deep inside – letting you in on something so private?
Writing, to me, is what I heard when I was listening.
Writing, to me, is when I pin down zero intent, and pure indulgence into structure, form, prose, poetry, images, visuals. Verbs, adjectives. Values, judgments, grammatical errors, clauses.
Is when I archive everyday, and sew days together with words.
For the bandies and Pappu. I love you more, and more, everyday.
For goo. I love you very much.
For my evil twins, Samurai and Billy, I miss you both.
And for someone who finds me annoying. Thank you, for everything.