I hate writing.

I hate having to ignite sepulchral, amnesiac letters with my naive, inarticulate impulses, to frame ambiguously interpretable literature.

Alas, that gut-wrenching fire of “self-sufficient” loneliness itself heats my belly so artistically, that I find cosseting sighs in the insensitivity of paper more private than leaking them into mortal ears, which convey the consciousness deceitfully in fragments.

The half empty glasses that splutter from the thunder inside the lover, cleverly hide how time, like the whiskey in its womb, always sheds off the pain of disapproval from one’s skin.

Yet when the lover writes mocking fairy-tale permanence and youth-hood despair, it bubbles only to infuriate him more.

When the king silently celebrates feeding ink to the empty unconquered whiteness, which reeks of roses and gold, he forgets how attention, like the speech he breeds there, shall pass when the applause dampens down.

The orderly notes, which the lyricist’s typewriter honours with poetry, soon numb its listeners if played for a long time.

For songs too, like emotions, ebb, flow and then are felt no more.

I hate writing because my perspectives change like my preference of wine, but this prudent diary keeps it alive—like a mistress preserving my mistakes.

While lurking around the bookstore, every identity I remember meeting had saline stains on their cheeks, burying in the depth of their dimples, (amateurishly hiding stories like how the darkness of deep wells hide dryness), stories of similarly intense deception and difficulty.

I turn back to them—like they turn pages of Lolita—pretending to overlook what they know already.

I fear they might open the channels of the secrets in their intestine, and let me drink from it.

And then I might crave to write about it.

I might write about cuddly angels who suddenly grow bored of the clouds they seek heaven in, and convert into mortals (not merely demons)—quite like immensely pampered spouses who turn into half-hearted, stone-hearted ex-spouses, suddenly taking all the importance for granted.

I don’t want to write because the vacuum blended with my existence would haunt me more, and make me scribble obvious stories, attracting obviously oblivious writers.

And then the obligation their oblivion reforms into will make me want to obliterate obtusely dug up vacuous hearts.

And hence, my vacuum fills theirs, feels theirs.

And concludes by itself, that every human silently needs another, knows another.

That isolation is common to everyone and hence no one is in absolute alone-ness.

How remorse soaks the walls of every heart, and fears of apocalypse remain locked inside like treasured chambers of gold, which the sentimentally poor should share and the apparently wealthier, weigh.

And then I know I can’t help but write.

I can passionately loathe it but then, sometimes, I feel writing can be still more fertile than futile.

One has to write.

For the simple reason that acknowledging life is more necessary than justifying death.

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Apprentice Editor: Kim Haas / Editor: Travis May

Photo: Lacy Gillott via Pixoto.