We make our home under piles of words, we make friends amidst the pages of books and we find comfort in between a full stop and the next capital letter. We feel in italics and reflect in capitals. With an obsession for the written word and words dangling from our fingers, yes, we’re writers.
Being prisoners of our impulses, we do not decide who we are. Initially, we are thinkers, over-thinkers to be precise. There are waterfalls of thoughts flowing through our heads. We think forwards, we think backwards and we think sideways.
Absurd questions race through our heads. Gradually, it turns into a state of mind. There’re always too many thoughts, more than our little cerebral hemispheres could store. That’s when it comes down to one thing, words.
We write because we have to. We write because if we don’t, our thoughts might dissolve us like acid spilling on bare flesh. When there is excess of something, it needs an outlet, lest it will destroy its container. Now, we are containers of thoughts and words are our outlets. Words keep our notions from destroying us. We find all our answers in what we bleed out as words.
We live by metaphorical resonances. We like to look at the world from the outside. We observe people and things. We could spend our entire lives in coffee shops, looking at people and listening to their strange conversations.
Even with the lights off and blankets over our heads, we never really stop writing. There are conversations and concepts in our mind that keep racing with the blood until the synapses in our brain collapse into sleep.
We look at the world differently from others. We perceive things in a unique way, we don’t see things plainly, and rather we fall in love with the colors and sounds that surround us. There are no bars for our imagination. Our bodies might be stationary, but our minds have traveled as far as universe permits.
In the end, all I can say is, a writer is nothing but an entire world inside one person.