When people ask me if I am a writer, I assume they’re wondering if I make money from writing professionally. Maybe if I have been featured in any blogposts, magazines, web journals or online articles. And while I haven’t, I recognise I am still a writer regardless of all these.
Why do I write at all, even without pay or audience? To me, the greatest pleasure when I write is not always what I am writing about. It’s in the music that accompanies my words. It feels like these words are hanging on a thin fine film: clear enough for every mind to appreciate.
I am performing a surgery with these sentences. My words, they’re delicate. Too delicate. Every single one is important: and knowing where to place them is even more important. My punctuations somehow feel like ointments, they’re littered around cascading my words with precision.
My writing feels like a journey. You travel in your mind as you read, hoping you do not come to an end. Tell me, what is more satisfying? Ending it feels like a sorrowful departure. Every single sentence bidding it’s time until that very final full-stop. And then comes the quiet.



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