Found this piece written years ago; thought I’d start a new category, see how it goes.

It is distinctly different than asking who I write for, but ultimately, one wonders if the two questions are somewhat interrelated. In the sense that who I write for, influences where I write from, and vice versa. Say, I write for myself, for my own pleasure, in this public platform, without heed nor care as to how others might view me. Which, even if I’m able to lie through my teeth in that way, if the reader is to believe me, then I’d seriously ask you to consider or reconsider how gullible you really are. Without doubt self-censorship immediately applies itself; what I choose to divulge or not divulge becomes a conscious choice even if it started out being an unconscious one.

Writers manipulate. Be it emotions or words or memories. Words chosen carefully, that strings at one’s innermost thoughts and emotions as you read the memories of the one who writes. But, whose memory? Is it important to uncover if the author writes as a feminist, as a gay/lesbian/bisexual/heteorosexual, as an ethnic minority using the language skills of the majority (that, bear in mind, isn’t the majority because of its numbers, but rather is the majority because of historical-political reasons), as a fan, as a left-wing liberal, right-wing conservative or apathetic anarchist? Will it assure us – readers, in general – that the voice is authentic and not merely manipulating us? Even better, what gives us the position to question the authenticity of the voice? Knowledge? Whose knowledge?

Only writers themselves will be able to tell where it is they write from: be it from the Pandora’s Box that no one else knows about, or from the fringe of ‘psychosis’ that plagues hypergraphiacs. And I’m not sure if it’s in their prerogative to justify to their readers where their compulsion to write comes from. Which brings me to this: why am I questioning myself now?

People generally are fake. Her life is a testament to that.

Still, she wished that people would surprise her sometimes, prove her wrong. But she learned to play the game. Learned to pretend like the rest of them: the fake smiles, the empty promises, the gentle acquiescence, when inside she knows they don’t care. Because all they want is a connection, no matter how fleeting. Most of them would serial date just so they could always feel something. Others talk and talk at her, expecting her to be something she’s not. Something they wanted her to be so they could be comfortable around her. But she’s sick, and she’s tired of pandering to their whims and fancies.

She wants to lock herself away from the world, throw away the keys. Nothing but her and an un-obstructed view of nature – the snow-capped mountains, the dense forest, the sound of waterfalls, the clear stream…

She thinks, perhaps, that she’s gotten used to the idea of not having someone by her side. Of not needing anyone. The long-time Muse, of whom she thought was going to be a life-long search has been found and laid to rest. She’s frankly tired of loving and learning that all was never meant to be.

Maybe what was meant to be has always been for her to be alone.

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You get so lost in the web that you ceased to see yourself in a positive light. You’re nothing but a shadow of what you once were: shrivelled, exhausted, defeated.

And for a while, you couldn’t believe the way he sees you in his eyes, so long lost that you’ve forgotten what it was like to see beyond the horizon. To dare to dream, to like those dreams. What he’s given you is a four-letter-word that you’ve stopped believing in: hope.

And you dare to hope. That you won’t let the darkness take hold again, to envelop and paralyze you with fear.

She’s the uptight one, they say. The one who won’t compromise on her beliefs.

They can talk all they want, but she knows who she is. She’s the practical one, the one who doesn’t believe in fairytales. And hey, a girl’s got to belief in something, right? So why can’t it be a set of ideals? Just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she has to believe in fairytales – she’s never been one to play by the rules. Never understood the appeal of being rescued. Why wait for rescue when she doesn’t need saving?

At times the longing is unquenchable, to the point where she finds herself helplessly clinging on to the thinnest straws that would somehow keep her afloat.

Spent years looking for you at every corner, everywhere I go. A glimpse of a face that felt familiar; sunlight reflecting off someone’s hair. A smile, or a twinkle in an eye that reminded me of you. From all those years ago.

In so many scenarios, I thought of what I’d say when I finally found you. but when the truth is finally staring at me right in the face, I find that I’m at a loss. On what to say, how to connect. Almost as if I’d forgotten how to get acquainted with someone new again. But a part of me wanted to rewind everything back to that summer years ago, wishing that I could be that somewhat carefree kid again. Truth is, I can’t. And I won’t.

So, what now?

The familiar smell of the burning incense, the shadowy glow that emits from the candles lit around the building. The prayers uttered, methodically, like clockwork. This place used to give me a sense of inner peace: the quiet, the repeated motions emitting a sense of familiarity. But now? Now it just reminds me of how I’m meant to walk down this path called life all alone.

We each take a little bit of those we love, and those we have loved, into our souls. Both the good and the bad – lessons to be learned in this journey called life.

In you I have discovered the courage to do the things I never imagined I’d have dared to do, and the light shines brighter everyday. Everyday you inspire me to try and be a better person, and for this, I have you to thank.