I am not what I write.
I am not the necessary evil that calls forth the brave ones from the crowd. I am not the brave one who defeats the gunned army and precipitates the world with hope that wanes.
I am not the suicidal dude who likes to sit next to you at history class, hoping you’d tell me I’d live until I’m sixty. I am not the girl who flaunts her body and hopes the hot guy will kiss her so she’d feel needed even just for an entire minute. I am not the daughter who tries to understand the tantrums of her menopausal mother, nor am I the son who wishes he’d grow up to be better than his biological father. I am not the wallflower who watches the sun rise and fall like the steady breathing of the imaginary friend he’s had since he realized he was fit to be the bullied.
I may be the girl who spends her afternoon reading in a forgotten corner of a public library, but she really isn’t me because she wears signature clothes. I may be the man who peers out the window to check on his five year old son as he runs and trips across the front lawn, but he really can’t be me because he hasn’t told a soul about his smoking addiction. I may be the killer, but there’s no way to guarantee it because my sin is not the sum total of my being.
I am not every unspoken desire, every ounce of inspiration, every shadow of the character I inhabit, every tragedy, every crime, every drop of happiness and anger that I know how to write.
If you were struck by my writing, it’s not because I write well, but because you’re convinced that you found yourself in what I write. I am just the willing instrument through which everything about you and your life are made effable.
I am the writer.
Sometimes I wish I am not as lost as I truly am; that sunrise does not always lead to sunset, and that every morning does not need an evening. Sometimes I wake up and wish I am in a room full of people who are sleeping soundly, looking ridiculous in reality while in their deep dreams they are acting kings and queens.
Sometimes I like to watch these people in my mind, watch them roll on the mattresses on the floor and accidentally kick somebody as they stretch their bodies like cats do, and the victim of that kick will only wrinkle his nose and not wake up until noon, when he finally feels there’s a bruise surfacing on his right cheek.
I wish I’d wake up with these people and have no cares; that we’d talk and not be afraid that in a couple of hours, the day would end and we’d have to part ways to dream on our own again. There would be long stretches of space and nothingness between us, but it’s not a nothingness that is empty – just a nothingness that is silent but full of ineffable, incomprehensible, infinite meanings.
I do not know these people, but they occupy the spaces in my head sometimes. They have their own wishes and dreams, their own heartbreaks and infatuations, their own lusts and failures. We all want mornings without evenings, love without betrayal, and trust without crossed-fingers.
I guess we wish the same things too much, that’s why we end up stuck in my head for seconds and minutes and days and years and centuries unaccounted for.
When the day ends in my conscious dream, I know who these people really are.
I am full of myself.
At one point, that as a fact does not make me sad (anymore).
If you’d ask me to paint a picture depicting the significance of words in my life, I’d tell you to light a dark street with the weak glow from a lamppost and to imagine me standing below it. Cast your eyes to the ground and you’ll see my shadow. Look closer and you’ll notice it’s black and wet. Smell it and the sharp odor that will infiltrate your nose will help your brain recognize it as ink.
The deeper I fall into the biosphere of writing, the more convinced I am that words have such a strong grip on my wills and evils that without it reflecting me on the pavement, I’d be forever lost.
Writing helped me resolve my issues against myself and against the world. It gave me a silhouette in a time full of blinding lights. It gave me a place in history by arming me with the very weapon that had allowed the limited nature of every existence to be immortalized through words on paper.
My intentions are not saintly. The collection of written works you’ll encounter in my blog are the few I’ve written that are ripe for strangers to feast on. I’ve selected, especially in my creative works, the ones that will best describe me as a person.
I have overcome the greed to write for applause and have successfully dived into the greed of writing for two things: prose and expression. You can trust that I leave pieces of me in everything I write, and in the moments that I compose my work I am immersed in the vision of being a voice for the mentally, emotionally, and spiritually mute.
I hope I am not the only one left who treats words with due respect. I hope that I am not the only one left to believe that I am responsible for every sentence I scribble in my notebook and type on my laptop. I hope I can show you how much I care.