Why I write.

What does it mean to be a Writer ? Being a writer has been my dream for years now . But I never asked myself this question before . Or maybe I did, I just haven’t had the urge to answer it . Back in High School, in philosophy classes . We were taught to question everything . Maybe they were right, maybe it was and still is the only way to reach our goals. A question can indeed lead to more question , complicate what’s already complicated as well as it can show us one single clear path to follow . In both cases, and no matter how many questions one can ask and how many definitions are put on the table , there’s always a way to fulfill our dreams . I know this is what I want to do because as soon as my pen gently kisses the paper, my worries quickly melt away . To write, to capture life in all its detail, that it to live twice . To be in touch with your innermost self, that is divine . When I’m at the edge of a cliff looking downstream , observing the crowd , when I’m harried by day and haunted by night , writing helps me find the tunnel at the end of the light . When I’m confronted with blasted hopes , and the dark shadow of a deep disappointment settle upon me, words are the column I lean against , that lifts the tremendous load upon my soul . It’s a blessing and it’s a curse. Ironic how when you’re in a dire need to write in order to seek serenity and some peace of mind , you find yourself forlorn of comfort and no longer blind . You can’t help but be antsy, queasy , foolhardy, obscene , dubious seeking the obvious , more bewildered and confused than you have ever been.

I read about Bukowski and I feel his bitterness, I read about Oscar Wilde’s wild life and I can almost feel as if I’m trapped and isolated from the world the way he was , I read about Simone De Beauvoir’s struggle of feminism and I couldn’t look up to a person more than I do look up to her. I read about every writer’s life, how he endeavors to change , revolutionize and leave his touch on earth and I feel that I’m each one of them represents a part of me . Each war every single one of them has gone through is a war of mine . I was never a big talker . I am not either a fighter . I’m just a person with a lot of passion and a little of an experience . I am a magician who turns simple words into poesy , who turns a simple story into a fantasy . Without my pen , I’m just another lost soul seeking guidance . With every sharp pang of pain stuck through me like a knife, and made each delicate fiber of my nature quiver, with every failure and every disappointment, I grow like a bush-fire in the harmattan .

People’s superficiality , gossip, ruts their entering my life like a fast train and leaving it faster than a dream . These are trivial things , things that I think that enough ink has been spilled talking about them . No writer hasn’t ever been contemptible, despicable , rejected, inimical . I proudly say that I’ve been abased and flustered . I keep concocting our dreams, hopes and plans to prepare a brighter future, to become who I’ve always wanted to be.

A dream can change. However, the purpose remains the same. We all want to be immortalized. We all someday want to be recognized.

Either we end up by feeling unduly important and valued or useless and undervalued. There’s no in between.

It’s indeed far, untouched, unspoken to for all that we keep working to engulf it. In spite of every deploredness we encounter. And here I quote myself

“Our major adventure is to break tradition

We’re certified, absorbed by our own pride,

Watered by the rains of trouble, growing toward the sun that shines,

Standing on the shoreline waiting,

I have always lived behind the rhyme and verse.”

A writer is never a one person . He’s many people at once : The introvert and the outgoing , the poor and the rich , the egoist and neglected, the whimsical and the cynical, the ugly and the beautiful, the honest and the rogue , the powerful and weakening, the lazy and the hard-working , the libertine and the moral . It’s a curse and a blessing at once. A writer can’t help but put too much of himself into his work, he can’t help but leave a certain impression on his reader. Being the only one who knows why and how he wrote such things give him a feeling of individuality and power over the others. A writer is selfish enough to think that his ideas matter, that people will actually give attention to his words and cut enough time our of their lives in order to devote it to is thoughts.

One can never define who a writer is, what I know for sure is that it takes skill and talent, patience and sacrifice.

For his whole life, a writer keeps trying to be a part of something, to fit into society. Endless pages and never-ending books about everything and nothing. But whilst writing those masterpieces, he needs to be isolated from the world, he needs to keep his individualism , to not get influenced by them and get sucked into the mechanism. They face a lot of rejections, no one to turn to but their drafts and old ripped-pages books. They face a lot of disappointment, no one to turn to expect their typewriter .