It’s been a long day. The three pegs of Old Monk haven’t got me any drunk than I was before. I have no tickets to fly off to. And the dejection still hangs around me. Sleep is what I want, a good tight sleep with beautiful dreams to wake up to. It has been deluding for some days and I can feel its weary effect on me.
I look for an aspirin tablet in my desk and end up with know. Instead my eyes catch the glimpse of the dog ears of my diary. I pick it up, blow away the little dust that had made it their resting place and flip through it.
It was one if my first diaries I had used to write down my stories and thoughts. It brings back sweet memories. Memories of youth pounding through my veins and the vivid perception I had back then and how it flowed down through to the pen.
And with that thought I remember the sweet moment when she asked me about my diary. She had found it with me in my bag one day when we were out having a coffee. She read some of them and was impressed. She liked stories. I like to write stories. I could write whatever she wanted, just for her.
She then returned the book with a question accompanying it.
Why do you write? What drives you? Which emotion do you look forward to in your writings?
Why do I write? Good question. There is no definitive rule anywhere that requires you to come up with an answer for everything and anything. Some things are meant to remain a mystery and are better to be left to it. But since she had asked this I can’t stay mum. At least for her I needed to answer it.
Hmmm. A tough question. Really I don’t know have an answer to it. But here’s what I feel.
I write what I see and feel around me. There any so many people and things to see and feel and hear around you. And if you can make a good company out of them then how will your pen ever run dry. Everything has a story to tell.
The chirping birds coming to feast during the twilight hours on the flies and cicadas hanging around the bright street lamps. The walls of the Govt School that has seen kids coming in and going out as teens, peeling away in the changing vivid tropical climates.
The elder and the aged who have countless tales of their exploits and of their simple childhood they enjoyed living. Now it’s the memories that bring a smile on their face. Their rocking chair rocking away to the lullabies being played away by death.
The green paddy fields that have fed thousands of people and have also seen them come in arms in the name of progress to build a thriving jungle, a concrete jungle. The winding roads around the countryside that have seen people come and go in various weird ways.
I write for my pleasure. I can only write a mere fraction of it. I have to be choosy in what I write. If only there was a library in which all the books that could be ever written be kept and be accessible to the people.
I want everyone to write too. Everyone sharing their stories, their thoughts and experiences and their interactions with the animated and the inanimate. Let the borders be dissolved in the stories of the people and let them huddle together to listen to the stories of their adversaries.
History has been written in many ways but there is so much more to dwell into in them. The knight who drew the blade on his friend in the name of the king, the queen who lived a bisexual life or the prince who was a coward and a puppet to his minister.
Even the continents can tell tales if asked to. Of how they came to existence, drifted to bridge the long distance relationships they had among them, the evolution that they have witnessed and the future that they are waiting for and the mysteries that are to be revealed.
Writing makes me happy. Really. Sometimes I might need a little bit of inspiration but that doesn’t take away the joy I get when I put in my last full stop.
And there is imagination. I can imagine a lot of things. Things beyond comprehension, without logic, without the boundaries of wit and sense. What, why, how, when, where can all be applied to a single moment in time and the consequences of the infinite possible reactions can be imagined upon and written down.
This is not an explanation as to why I write. It’s something that even I can’t really understand. But this is just what comes to my mind when I sit down to jot something. All these are there inside me and even much more.
And I just what to write as much as I can. I want to be a storyteller. To anyone and everyone who has the time to lend an ear.