I first write to mend a broken heart. I was young (read: ‘stupid’), and was careless too. And then when my heart has healed, the same pursuit took a life of its own and soon turned into an obsession that I could not really fathom, let alone to control.
I write in the dark, to make the bleakness around me seem bearable. But in the end, I fool no one… no one but myself.
I write to erect a façade to shield from and block this often mean and nasty world we live in.
I write to resurrect the dying art of the yore. Trust me, the advent and pervasiveness of the Internet will eventually stone the craft of writing to its death.
I write because I am sick of reading someone else’s pieces. Some of it flawless, and some mediocre. But regardless, they remain someone else’s.
I write to unravel the secrets around me, but at times I untangle and wrap back those I can’t tell.
I write to unleash the monster within me – the ogre who is always loud with its roars to create doubts and worry. It is always threatening me, judging me, and jeering me – That monster never tires of wanting to discourage.
I write to hush up the sounds of the universe, the complexity of languages. But when anger simmers, I write to shut that person up.
I write because it soothes my insecurities, my self-imposed rules. But if I am being honest, I write because I’m scared.
I write to chase away this compulsion that constantly rages through the course of my flesh. Its vein bulges with intensity – if left unattended, I will bleed to greet my untimely death.
“I never write for money because if you do, you are one pompous ass.” The truth, you asked? I never write for money… because I am not nearly good enough.
I write to avenge all those people who have wronged me. I have soon discovered, it is myself that I have to first forgive.
I write to let go of the ghost of my Christmas past… but he’s a ghost for God’s sake! Who am I kidding?
I write to snip off that stupid–but-stubborn clichés that appear between my sentences. Oh, how I hate them! But cliché is, more often than not, one of life’s manuals. I never like manuals, but I know I need them.
I write to compose a musical sheet in my heart, lullabies in my head, so that I’d be calmed. Because writing, just like music, is food to one’s soul.
When I let my ego cloud my judgment, I write to show off. And I despise myself for that. Again, I have to forgive this sinful heart.
I write to punctuate a preamble in my hectic life; I write to question those decisions I have made without cogent reasons.
Sometimes (when it suits me), I write to bitch-slap those ignorant, selfish, education-less politicians. I must admit I’ve had fun doing it.
I write to blow the wind of hatred to racist bigots. I hope they’d be sentenced to rot in the pit of the coldest hell.
But when the nights are endless and clouds descend low in the sky, I write to search for the shooting star I secretly wish for. It hasn’t come yet… and perhaps it never will.
I write to cherish those I love; to scorn those I hate.
I write to recite a personal poem that is offensive to people around me.
I write to mourn the death of my father since a decade ago.
I write to wipe tears of infidelity on my friend’s cheek, when nothing I say or do could bring back the man she loves.
I write to lessen the burden of guilt on my frail, tired shoulders. Sometimes it works, most of the times, it doesn’t.
Lastly, I write to prologue my old unfinished holograph. When it is finally printed, I pray you would like it.