Something …

Something is holding me here

As if it wants me to

I don’t know what it is

But I want to know too I often find myself wandering anywhere and everywhere

Always lost and confused

I keep telling myself that I’ll find it

But I never do

So I stopped looking and moved on

Yet there is this pit in my stomach that forces me to think about it

Then I decided to go back to my roots

Hoping it will come to me

 

I Remember

Staying inside all day just to finish that one painting

Staying up all night to force myself to write

Printing my edited papers to make sure it is perfect

Practicing a clarinet on nights and weekends to avoid doing my homework

Quite frankly, …

I miss it

The things I used to enjoy

Sure I was obsessive, insomniac, and stubborn

But that was passion for me

It was powerful and magical

It made me feel more human

Passion with a sprinkle of hope

 

 

 

Why do I write?

I found language absolutely fascinating. I want to learn German, French, Arabic, Russian, Swahili, and … so much more. The meaning of the words from one culture’s context can be completely different from another culture. I always wonder why–like many of us do as we learn another language. Currently, I’m struggling writing in German because the word order in German use a different system than in the English language. Even though I’m struggling with German, I love the struggle. I love struggling with words because, to me, it is a puzzle that I need to solve to make a perfect sentence. A sentence that captivates people’s mind that they can’t stop thinking about it.

The Great Gatsby. Sherlock Holmes. Brave New World. Of Mice and Men. The Girl on the Train. All these literatures are handpicked to be the magnificent in various times. Every wonder why that is? I always did as a child then now and till my death. Those books provoke something in us that we didn’t notice before. An idea. Our voice hidden away yet found again and again and again etc.

I once tweeted, “To feel alive again is the reason #WhyIWrite.” I still stand by that statement. I write because it makes me feel alive. We created language to identify who we are by using symbols and meanings. The language is our identity. In other words, language is our mind’s eye like each cells in our body keeps us alive.

Every time I write, I hope my words captivates you somehow. Does it make you think? Does it make you feel something? What were your thoughts? I want to provoke something inside of you that you never noticed before. And I want you do the same with me. Provoke me. Challenge me. Make me think. So go on and leave a brash comment or anything. I love perspectives. It’s weird but fascinating.