why I don’t write

It’s funny how hard it is to inhibit a space. Writing was a finger- ache, a silent, independent compulsion, since I learnt how to hold a pen.

Stories came first, of course, and stories are such sacred and humbled space-takers of their own. As a child, even if it’s subconsciously, you learn to draw the boundaries- real and make-believe, nowadays and long ago, princes and dragon, Me and Other. You learn how to discern the subtle lilt to tragedy, the majestic promise of love. The world expands exponentially. Suddenly there’s a bare canvas in your mind.

Imagination, ultimately, sets you free.

To write means to carve a space for yourself, to constrain your thoughts and fears and experiences into words that can cross the expanse of culture and age and laptop screen. I never know if I have the right words.

The ironic thing about creativity is that, by definition, to create is to compress chaos into order. You cannot have the creative force without those chaos, that mess of feels and colors and wants in your head. But to gift all of that form and name and image, to cajole all that into lines and shapes- a subtle rib-ache.

Everything we truly love, lives outside of space.

Everything we truly fear, lives within us- and all we write, we lose to sound.

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