Why I write

I write because I have thoughts which will be more sensible when they are put into print. Thoughts which can be of help to myself when situations arise and to others when their words fail them.

I write without stopping not mindful of the grammar or even the legibility of what I write. I jot down everything--in the end it looks like I'm drawing hieroglyphics or that my piece is written by a chicken but then again the effort is more noticeable than the cause. The physical set up of my writing is the effect of trying to catch up with my thoughts. You see, a thought is the very essence of writing. I believe that every thought is precious, it should be in black and white. A thought once it slipped your mind is hard to recover. And when you try to recover it you will be plagued by technicalities.

Writing is writing without thinking. Writing is writing only with your thoughts with the best way to express them.

I write because I am compelled to fulfill my pen's worth--- the reason for its existence; to combine letters which would make sense or even if it wouldn't, as long as its ink will be exhausted because it will sink into uselessness by fulfilling its sole purpose.

I write because it's the only way I can express myself. It's just me, my pen and a piece of paper. This way, my world is simple.

I write not because I know words also not because I want to flaunt my vocabulary. I don't want to complicate my message by using highfalutin words because using such do not ensure maximum comprehension of what I write. When words want to take over me, I give in. Words are the result of the combination of letters which eventually made sense.

I write because I want to be understood not to boast.

I write because my emotions drive me to do so.

I write because I can.
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These I just have to put into words to serve as a reminder when I get scared of looking at a blank piece of paper, when I start doubting my right hand's ability to guide a pen and be lost in the world of thoughts and words.


--D.B.R.S

Somewhere I have never travelled...

Somewhere I have never travelled

by E.E Cummings

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

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I want to experience this journey.