When I write, I pause. I immerse myself into subtlety, into silence, into solitude. I recollect my past, my experiences plus the host of feelings and emotions that linger in my heart. And then I look at myself, my state, the ideas that govern my mind and the emptiness that fills it. This momentary stillness remains until the swift strokes - of words, of sentences, of lines, of stanzas mark the gleaming leaves of my pad - bring it to a halt. Strokes inked by my blood: words, sentences, lines and stanzas.
Why should I write? A simple question yet of profound sense - certainly a bit difficult to answer. The first thing that came into my mind was, it is my innerself which i can not say but write.
Logic taught me that man is substance, living, sentient and rational. He can feel, sense and think. More than feeling, sensing and thinking, he is capable of expressing himself, of relating and of communicating everything that he feel, sense and think. When I write, I use a pen. Sometimes I toy with my pen, bite its cap, unscrew and screw its parts, and throw somewhere just to pick it up and throw it again. I've been doing this for a long time, yet I haven't heard of any word from my pen - silent.
I write because it is the reason of my existence. Writing allows me to introspect - to see myself, my feelings and my thoughts. It allows me to understand better the world and all inhabit it. Because of it, I am able to view life in a wider horizon. It reminds me of my nature - I feel, I sense, I think. It taught me how to exist not like a pen rather like a man - able to express himself.
Behind my pen lies myself. When I write I give birth not to words, sentences, lines nor stanzas but to myself.And I want to discover myself again and again.
