Why I write

I write because I must.
I write to free myself from the entrapment of words.
I write because under my skin, words wait to break out, one letter at a time.
I write so that amorphous fleeting ideas could be given form, so that they may be alive, for left to themselves they would fade into oblivion as unknown unsung martyrs.
I write because this is the greatest form of expression I have known. This freedom of not having to hide, this bravado of uncovering the lid, this insanity of losing control. This is what I need.
I write so that, in some manner, my words would seep into your soul. Sometimes they might come with the silence of a stealthy cat, so that I could enter your mind and catch you by surprise when I stare right back at you. Sometimes they might march on with the strident sounds of a chainsaw ruthlessly cutting through stubborn trees, quashing all opposition. Sometimes they may hold you by your hand, and take you on a trip to a fantastic land where thoughts have crystallized into life.
I write, in the hope that my words may spur you on to take a trip to nowhere, immerse yourself in obscurity and find yourself back again.
I write, because some day, I would like to be remembered for my words. Just my words.

Let the silence play

Let’s not talk tonight. Let silence play out until morning comes back, waking us out of our sleepless reverie. Let it untie the knots that time has thrown between us.

Silence, oh this silence. It has torn me and you; torn us into shreds that left to themselves could have grown into different versions of the same person. Silence, that was once the language we spoke fluently, has now morphed into a cacophony interspersed with discordant voices. Yet, I want it to be the healer again.

For silence is the best healer I have known. Better than questions whose answers create more questions. We have always loved questions. Questions that opened me to you and you to me, with answers that we needed to hear. Questions, some of which were answered not by words, but by hands that met leisurely while the city sped past every evening on its buses and its bikes. Some others were answered by glances that could not notice people rushing back to their homes, oblivious of the coffee shop that enveloped us in a dream. Some questions we just chose to leave at the river while we went out bathing in the hope that they would get washed away like the sands on the shore.

Tonight, I leave the questions behind us. For even the river has now broken; its flow was never strong enough to cut through the rock. In spite of its fury, its frothing passion, there was only so much it could do. So there we were, between the rock and the river, gnawing, stabbing at stone that refused to break. The river complied.

Silence will heal it all. Erase the questions that need not be answered. Some day, the sun will walk to the other end of the earth, and come back redressed in a new shade of crimson. The pervasive silence will have wiped the slate clean. Questions will have melted away. Perhaps you and I will have melted too, and reformed ourselves.

For that someday, I want to be silent tonight.