For reasons still unclear to me, I take to writing. Maybe it’s the emptiness of the moment. Maybe it’s the allure of the art. Maybe it’s the fascination with things ethereal. Maybe it’s the free outpouring of the sufferings within, or the beauty and bliss inside. Maybe it’s what my heart dictates. Maybe it’s all of these and much, much more.
I take to writing with the eagerness and curiosity of a child, with the same innocent sparkle in his eyes. I grope for words like a swallow snatching insects in flight — unsure of which insect to catch, but resolute in its mission to catch one, or more.
The words spawn phrases, phrases become sentences, sentences turn into verses, and verses take shape as poetry or prose. I become an instrument and a witness to an exquisite metamorphosis of words: from their cocoon until such time when they develop wings and soar to unlimited heights, to uncharted territories.
I take to writing with the constancy of sunlight illuminating the earth, pervading even when the darkest and thickest of clouds attempt to obscure it.
I take to writing as a man on a mission, like a starving lion searching for its prey even in the frigid cold of the night — undaunted and unrelenting.
I take to writing with a firm belief that there are words out there waiting to be caught by a writer, for those words to be put into paper, immortalized in ink — for knowledge, for sustenance, for inspiration, for posterity.
I continue to write and pour my thoughts out, not knowing if these thoughts will be like pollen — be carried by the wind and once they fall on fertile soil, they will germinate and become flowers and fruit that may someday pervade somebody’s garden or orchard. Until then, the wind around me blows hollow.