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Why I Write

It happens when my mind feels like someone took a stab at it. When I am enraged with nowhere to put the rage. I feel a tingle in my right hand. When my fingers start to uncontrollably twitch. I find myself making a bold fist with nothing to punch. When my blood feels thwarted- literally, boils. And when that vengeful blood circulates through every nook and cranny of my body, I must shift the fiery physical rush from my body onto a paper because otherwise, I am certain my insides will get charred. When I don't have access to an antidote to intercept my own lousy temperament, that falls powerless in the face of even the slightest onslaught. When my guts are rebelling against my throat and skin and I am afraid they might flood outwards. When the neurological pathways in my brain are encumbered with pathological insecurities so strong, that I find myself defunct to do much else. 

That’s when I put pen to paper and write till my hand is ablaze. I write till my mind is lighter and my body morphs from dense to feather-like. I write till my world becomes ordinary again. Till the vein in my forehead pushes back in and my breath paces regularly. I write because writing is a form of violence that the law allows. I write because I studied history and I know that writing was always used to put the ferocity of the heart to paper. 

I write when I am ravenous. 

I write to quell my mind and protest my disposition. 

“It is hardly writing, it is more like screaming.” – Virginia Woolf

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21 Days

They say it takes 21 days of persistence to build a habit. 

Which brings me to my inquiry:

How long does it take to find solace in abuse? Is 21 days enough? 

Is it on the twenty-first day that a child starts accepting stinging slaps as normal? 

When does the ear acclimatise itself to yelling? 21 days? 

How many days till you gracefully walk on eggshells before someone who relentlessly strips away your peace? 21 days? 

When do you blissfully mistake neglect for love? 21 days? 

Do you start mistaking violence for care when you accept it for 21 days? 

Do you stop speaking the truth when only lies keep you safe for 21 days? 

Do you stop speaking altogether when you are left unheard for 21 days?

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Faith

I fall and then bleed. 

Salt gashes will become stars. 

Magic in my faith. 

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Dear Axel

Dear Axel, 

My troubles stay burgeoning, growing untamed in my garden. I see cruelty where others do not. 

I saw a woman at the farmer’s market selling healing crystals and stones. Crystals and stones lynched and mutilated against their will into pleasing shapes. Our healing in exchange for the blood of the earth herself. 

I witnessed a rich man donating his surplus groceries to the homeless. For the cosmos, an act of charity. To me, an astounding display of the arrogance of a man who feeds his well-fed self first and aids those less fortunate only as an afterthought. 

And did you know,  sunflowers are allelopathic, injecting toxins into the soil and stifling other plants from blooming? How ignoble of the world to celebrate the beauty of a murderer. 

There is no good, without the bad and morals are only what we render them to be. 

Axel, it seems to me that every deed is tainted by an inescapable paradox- what may seem altruistic to one, spells doom for another. Such is the bitter irony of this world in which I run the risk of harming others by mere acts of self-preservation. 

The guilt of it all reverberates through my every vein. How does a woman proceed from here? 

With love,

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Dear Axel

Dear Axel, 

If envy is malice, then perhaps my deposition is not as innocent as I once believed. 

I admit I covet pragmatism. The simplicity of living life from one task to the next without the compulsion to transform every dull chore into a grand poem is something I lack. 

I need every waking hour to feel like an adventure. I deplete myself often, perpetually attempting to infuse grandeur and ballads into mundane duties. 

Those who live life only to get by unscathed, those with wishes they could fit in a teaspoon, must feel such ease. 

Imagine not feeling burdened by the ordinary. Imagine surrendering to the rules without questions. Imagine, for once, actually reading the instructions.

Think about the bliss of succumbing. 

Poetry is captivating because it is always out of grasp. Even when it deigns to take a few steps towards me, I am barely running my fingers along the outline of its shadows. 

Prose is everywhere. Prose weighs me down. But it is prose I must befriend. 

With love, 

Akshara

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Manifestation Song

In my mind, burrowed between two passageways,

I rented a home in C major 7 and played its tune on repeat for a little sway. 

So if my conviction is to arrive before my eyes, 

I make it dance to the music in my head prior to welding it with real life. 

And if the heart is a window to gauge what’s yet to come, 

I bolt shut its cynicism lest it leave dirty, lingering crumbs. 

But lately, the daily ebbs feel like punches from hardened knuckles. 

And if what we think is what we become, boy am I in trouble.

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Dear Tempestine

Dear Tempestine, 

You might not remember me well, but I can recount the outline of your body extemporaneously. You always stood out, altogether golden. 

I was and remain just another cog in the crowd machine. Nothing about me exudes remarkability. The world, I have concluded, is a dichotomy of the observers and the observed. In this life, I am working the spotlight and shining it on those who are golden, like you. 

I do not dispute that respect is something that must be earned. But for you, Tempestine, it appears to fall on the lap like an easy offering. You have a head start. You have an unforgettable face and speak words with such cadence that even lyrebirds reluctantly accept their incompetence before you. 

In the daylight, the light guides my life and brightens up conservations. Towards nightfall, there is nothing to anchor me, and I find myself grovelling for someone to put the spotlight on me and behold me just once. 

The Moon Goddess never obliges and I shudder to think I am accursed to sit in oblivion. No light, no gold, just abject darkness. 

With begrudging admiration, 

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Sympathy for the Devil Father

If I could surgically remove you from my genetics, I would have become a doctor and wielded the scalpel myself. 

I glimpse at my reflection and notice my smile resembles yours. The smile of someone who recoils from the slightest responsibility. 

I once indulged in merciless gluttony, like you still do. An abyss of the stomach of someone with an unchecked ego. 

I used to be lazy, like you still are. A pawn of your circumstances. 

I spoke brusquely, like you still do. The stench of your abrasiveness and cigarettes wafting in my face as you shout in the name of reason. 

I used to keep my brain as a souvenir, like yours remains a relic. The rotting neurological pathways of someone who vehemently refuses contemplation. 

But I want you to know this. My smile is now my own, sculpted and re-adjusted so many times, that it resembles neither yours nor ma’s. My diet is strict, a constant test of my will against greed. I am proactive, waging wars against my fate everyday. I measure my words, carefully crafting my sentences. Ma calls me an argumentative genius.  I keep my brain occupied with books, never giving it respite.  My ego lies slain, a wound I inflicted on myself to keep it from harming those I love. 

I am nothing like you. 

It ends with me.