On Writing

Writing, I personally think, is for the haughty.

Those who believe in their values, that their opinions are justifiable, that they can withstand criticism, who claim responsibility and ownership, even demand credit over the fruits of their mind. People with statements to defend, with battles to win against a better equipped enemy, and words to weave into a legacy. These people, I’m truly jealous of. They spin tales of pretentious awareness, write for an audience that believes in the author’s competence just a little less than the author themselves, write pitiful real life tales with happy endings for social media to fawn over, publish articles that make one believe they are the refugees unable to seek asylum rather than first world softies they really are (probably).


I write, though because I cannot be bothered to express otherwise.

Because I don’t like to.

Because I don’t know how to.

Because there’s not always an audience to receive.

Because there are some things you just cannot speak out.

Because everything sounds like poetry when I read it silently, the eloquence that’s often missing in speech.

And because it’s the quietest show of power there could be.

The power of the words to make harmonious comprehension, the power of an idea that could potentially change lives and the power of permanence in the fluid world of text.


I’ve never found more satisfaction in expression than I have whilst writing. Sadly, however, I have lost my touch, the talent that is better in memory than it probably was when I believe I had it. Hence, as a project to help my words flow, my fingers type with a hundred mistakes a minute and an effort to be accountable to the skill I think I lost, is this blog, whose story you do not know (nor wish to, presumably).

Writing here, I think, has given me more than a legitimate excuse to procrastinate from all that burdens me. It gives me an ambition to write more and for more eyes than my two, it gives me tangible goals to set (and yes, break), and a sense of propriety for what I choose to express. Thank a higher power for the internet that makes this possible.


Let’s also not talk about me for a change.

Except everything I write is more representative of me than what I could ever tell you. I write like people use pictures on Instagram- to tell a tale indirectly, to prove to the world they really do exist and in a more curated manner than IRL.

I couldn’t flood you with a barrage of words like I will in a particularly interesting (for me) blogpost. I couldn’t wait to find someone with the patience to listen to me rant about the most mundane, wacky, pedestrian subjects ever. Like my writing about writing.

Like how I would craft very imaginary, fictitious worlds in my head over the years but never bothered to pen the numerous stories that could be down because I was scared of how they would be received. Think Gossip Girl meets real life characters like you or me. Think pushing the limits of fanfiction.


All the teasers aside, writing is seriously integral to my identity now, a mirror into my small imagination that was once a labyrinth of possibilities. I intend to write till I can produce that content I like to read (or that I remember me writing), or I die.

Whichever comes first.


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