I take out the album everyday which contains the pictures embedded in my mind.
I take out those remembrances even if I dare not look at times…
A writer’s life is a solitary one…
it is lived in between what is present and what is past
it is lived in the silence which bridges both,
in order to make it real—
Sometimes I do ask myself if I waste time by just writing—
but then again I feel more alive when I have faced myself
as I write what I dare not say out loud at times…
It is like music that adds something more to whatever it is that one does. One continues, weaving a piece of cloth for example. One can do it in silence, yes, but perhaps, the cloth would more beautiful if one weaved it with the music on…
A writer’s pen is a gift, for it allows one to create the music that will make life perhaps… more bearable.
Do I love when I write? Do I love others and not myself alone?
I say yes… For upon the drop of ink on the paper held.. or the punching of letters on a keyboard, one reaches out to others (even if the work is not read).
One reaches out and allows oneself to be one with — humanity, I guess. The humanity who for thousand of years have looked at the sun and wondered where the heck it got its light… the humanity who looks into the eyes of a loved one and wonders– why the heart can beat in such a way… the humanity which kisses the lips of a beloved and wonders, can any day be as happy as this one…the humanity that is…
What is humankind to do if not to share all these things?
What is humankind for if not to live— in the fullest way that it can…?
