Insane. ✒️

​Nobody wished me Happy Writer’s day on the day itself. 

I wondered why but the real question was ‘Did I wish myself?’

The ink on my fingertips has not run down and the fuel in my system is still as viscous as it could be, 

But it might seem like I’m shy all of  a sudden. 

Like all my drafts are kept as what they are - drafts. 

Why?

Because an unwelcome feeling of shyness has cast it’s unbearing shadow over me. 

 

With further introspection, 

I asked myself again “Do you think it’s just shyness? Or is there fear too? Does shame now begin to live between your walls?”

By now, I’m sure you can tell how much I love to conversate with myself. 

That question took me by shock and plundered me into a darkness I’m well acquainted with.

 

To be a writer is to be shameless, 

To bear the nudity of your words to the public, 

To leave the burden and weight of your words for others to worry about, 

It’s not for a scared chicken.

Is that what I’ve become?

Will this remain a draft too?

 

My fingers itch and cry whenever an idea pops in my head. 

They beg me to turn into words. 

I do not. 

Instead, I sit and play it out in my head, 

Giggling to myself like a mad woman which I must admit, I have become. 

Why?, You might wonder.

 

Ask around, 

Sanity runs from the home of a writer. 

And if you ever find a writer who seems normal to you, 

Then I’m afraid you’ve found a dupe. 

An ‘Amoyyi’ in the town of ‘Amoy’.

 

I do acknowledge one thing though. 

To be a writer is to write, stop writing and then write again. 

It is to come back to the one thing that keeps you grounded in a loud world. 

To come back home. 

 

Because nothing ever understands you like the words your fingertips come up with, 

The ones that pour out of your head, 

Threatening to make more scars if you leave them as a story untold. 

The ones that heal you gradually, 

Because pieces of your truth are embedded in them. 

Because your characters are you, in some way. 

Or maybe you, my dear reader. 

 

Oh, how badly I wanted to write about 2023,

But I must admit the truth. 

2023 was grief. 

2023 was exploration. 

How can two canon events co-exist in one timeline?

Oh, Welcome to the life of your favorite writer!

The words begged to be written. 
They disturbed my brain, over and over again. 

But I stood my ground. 

I would rather send thrills to your bones than share my pain. 

 

 

Nonetheless, I shall not stop. 

I refuse to be sane. 

I refuse to allow my words run me crazy or even madder than I already am. 

I shall write. 

No matter how insane it sounds, 

I shall write.

And guess what, my dear reader?

You have no choice. 

You shall bear the burden of my words.

 

 

Happy International Writer’s day. 

Wishing myself because I was wished 24 hours later. 

All love, 

- Your insane writer.