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.