I write because I like to witness my brain at work and because I like words. As a student of several languages, I am sensitive to words and their meanings. Slowly, speculations about the properties of language and the process of language acquisition are dawning on me. It's more fun for me to write in English than in my mother's tongue because I am retracing the steps of how I first learned to express myself in a foreign language.
I like to think aloud in words. I have no ambition. I possess no confidence that my words will appear in book form. Strangely, I am driven by ego, but I don't hanker after fame, especially posthumous fame.
So I like writing because the very act of writing forces me to think logically and yet ironically I feel free to dispense social comments and to air my thoughts even though I know my words don't lift up a single soul nor do they show him how to live or even to die. Writing to me is like taking a journey into a foreign land, with no guiding map. I have no idea beforehand what will come out of my mind. However, that brings me no discomfiture at all. Like Hamlet himself said, the play is the thing, my words speak for themselves, and not necessarily for me. They are part of me, but not everything about me.
One, two, three, I think I love thee
I don't know what's coming over me.
I was sipping my usual evening tea
In the balcony overlooking the rolling sea.
Waves were unfurling themselves on the beach;
Palm trees were swaying with the breeze
Then all of a sudden, twilight's dying lights
Made me realize thou art out of reach.
But still, my soul marches in lockstep like an enlistee
One, two, three, I think I love thee
Where art thou now? What thou art doing?
Dost thou ever think of me?
Dost thou hear the march of my soul?
The whispering whimpers of my heart's beatings?
Wissai
July 13,, 2013
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