Skip to main content

Writer by Design

Picking up a pen over everything else is a difficult choice. The Jamaican dub poet Michael Smith writes in Before I Lay Me Down:

                                      certain of nothing
                                   but the certainty of doubt.

These lines can be relevantly taken as an echo of rational paradox for all writers. Why does one write? For acclaim? Distinction? Pursuit? Urge? Ambition? Inspiration?

Nay. These are mere commoners. So much so is true for any industry. Passion single-handedly cannot decide the mark of destiny. So, what is it that makes a writer, writer?

Perhaps, the choice itself. When you know that everything that you deserve to be would never suffice what you already are. When you know anything else wouldn't justify what you already are. The hardest choice to make is to tell ourselves that we're already arrived.

The choice itself makes the different. To remain what you are, to keep that, to know this is all where you ever had to be. That there is no further place. No different place.

It is in that moment of reciprocity that your writer awakes. The awareness that everything around you is in motion except yourself. When you take the center and keep your stand.

A firm spine has the fullest view. Claim your design.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Jonathan Livingston Seagull is the world's edge

I remember when I picked Jonathan Livingston Seagull for the first time. It was long ago. A thin, square-sized book that it was, with every sentence Richard Bach had me to the skin. It was as if the time had frozen. Although I was too young, I could gather what I had bumped into. It wasn’t a book. It was the edge of the world. Upfront was the dark abyss of all your fears and apprehensions about the life. And somewhere far far ahead a faint light seemed to break in. Right then that day, I dashed into that tiny dot of light, not caring if my way ploughed through the deep void. You see, there is no abyss ever. It is you at either side. Validating the abyss is denying your connection to what is beyond you. Don’t be afraid when they tell you that the abyss stares back at you. It does not know the way to trespass on its own. Right across it stand specks of hopes, dreams, joys pulsating through the spectrum of your being. Transgress a little and you’d see that all the ashes burdenin

At Dusk

At dusk, the tale starts, Light recedes from around, I feel ajar. Pour out of me an invisible dream, A verse too old, a melody; I lose all flesh, radiate; Whatever remains, escapes, Along a river stream, I stroll. The moon emerges, Proves again its showmanship Upon the row of boats And the water below; I float, sink and float.

100 words - Fall

Auburn mesh of mellowing leaves and a shade  Of mild sun in the sky, isn’t the world shying up for a long quiet?  Slow arrival of the dawn, its brisk departure into evenings, I embrace  The night with an intense warmth now.  Stars seem to photodegrade, their tiny dabs stitching up  The cloak of the mists around.  The earth has become solemn, the breeze tells.  I can sense the fading whispers of trees as a lull  Slowly forms upon the hills.  Few drifting clouds look for ironies and leave  Disappointed.  The music from the rivers has turned cold on them.