Why I Write
In the middle of the night, I write to keep myself company with familiar words suddenly leading into foreign sentences and thoughts. Yet these unfamiliar structures embrace me tight like a warm blanket as the hours pass by in the dark. As a penance between dreams and reality, words that I write reveal what spoken language has failed to do; express my unrelenting ache for meaning lost in translation and time. For the words I cannot speak, I write to replace the void of empty spoken words. Often when I speak, I hide behind my vocabulary but when I write, I emerged from the synchronized definition to the unrefined surface where I can finally recognize myself. Like a mirror, I can read all the fine lines, scars, and beauty marks of my words for there are no places for them to hide. On paper, time stands still and the language becomes immaculate and untouchable. I write because I love the urgency of words once release. In which the birth of words tickle the line between friend and enemy, for written words breathe a life of their own. I write because I have absolute no control over the words I’m writing and they force me to face and question my truth. Most importantly, I write for words to be lost and eventually found. To be revived from the busy murmur of our lives in one silent waking hour. I write so my words will find their way back and sit me with me in morning