Writer: Niyoshi Parekh
Do you ever wonder why writers write? Do they believe that every ink drops on the blank canvas of the world blots and smudges till it colours most of the sheet? Do they ever wonder what these squiggly lines merge to form? Or do they write for themselves?
Are words just a defence mechanism, coping with isolation, desolation, depression?
When you can’t form coherent thoughts to win an argument you jumble them up into verses of poetry. When you can’t tell yourself what you truly feel you talk to your pencils your notebooks, your keyboards. An inanimate object can’t talk back and isn’t that the beauty of writing? It fulfils the desire for self-expression and when everyone praises your writing you wonder why then do they ignore you when you’re actually talking.
Maybe they only appreciate your thoughts when you’ve extracted them from your being, stripping away your appearances, your voice, your faces, you, leaving only words that come together to define abstract concepts.
You’re full of concepts. Every moment of the day you find a muse, some work out some never really do but the concepts never leave you, creeping into another poem on another day based on another concept. just like personal experiences do.
If you wrote an autobiography would it be a romance, a comedy or tragedy? just read your poems and you’ll know.
Sometimes I wish I could stop writing. Stop stringing together words to form garlands to adorn everyday events. I don’t know what would happen to the words if did.
Or would they leave?
Why do the writer’s write? I think they’re scared of not being able to.