the last slice in the box.
i have always been a writer.
i think i was born as one.
born outside the story.
born, a catalyst.
i never thought it to be that way. but then again. the universe works in strange ways.
for me,
things are on the other side of the window.
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being a writer is exhausting.
on some grounds, it becomes unjustifiable to understand people as if you have birthed them.
on some grounds, it becomes unjustifiable to never be understood.
it feels peculiarly narcissistic to segregate myself from the rest.
but
this ecliptic imprisonment can feel lonely.
again, i don't like writing about myself a lot.
i don't think people would want to read that.
i wouldn't either.
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my mother was born a writer.
in a way, i can see it in her eyes.
i can see the way she wrote letters after letters.
the way she fell in love with the characters she created
the way she looked for those who would write
just like her.
and the way she stopped banging on the glass window.
stopped wanting to be a part of the story.
lay on the wooden floors,
and looked up at the walls that separated her from
humanity.
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something separates our psyche, in a way you do not understand.
to be a writer, is to perish among the ashes.
on the floors scattered with letters she will never send.
with the contents of a box, that holds her pain.
away from the rest.
to be born a writer
is to be born as the soft sadness that lingers in the room, after the guests have left.
is to be born as your native language. the one you can't speak at times. so you listen.
is to be born a sweater in the closet, half new - purchased with a seasonal enthusiasm.
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it is a lot like being dead, i think.
to not exist.
or like a ghost.
i like being a ghost.
a concept.
a belief for some.
a mirror for others.
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a poem i read recently, talks of the morning after.
a morning after always has a staleness.
a morning after death.
a morning after a baby is born.
the joy dissipates. so does the aftertaste.
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i have begun to miss my heart.
so still now.
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