Only when I write, does the world start to make any sense. And the sun actually rises.
Only when I write does the dal taste better. And the tea smells of ginger.
Only when I write do I hear the talk, laugh with the laughter–
notice the colours and the pointed edges.
When I write, I uncover the thoughts I’ve hidden for centuries in my soul.
Pain, fury, love — gushes out and gets into those, those cogent but make-do words.
Only when I write do I remember why I am here. And what makes me tick–
slightly slower than the sarcastic and oscillating clock on the wall.
I write. To exist.
To wrap my mind with the cloak of sanity.
And just when the words make me sane and safe, I snatch it all away.
To start another day.