Why I Stopped Being a Writer

I like to remember you in the form of stolen moments that leave me feeling unsure of the world but certain about the possibility of us that will never condense into anything more than a secret I whisper past midnight only. I keep you folded in a little hidden pocket of my wallet–the danger of which I realised on a summer morning when I was unable to find my wallet for a good twenty-two minutes. That frenzy has stayed with me and the potential risk of holding people hostage, not just you, in the form of tangible items has now become a thing of the past.
I have moved on to the beauty of words.
Words that I hope will die with me for I cannot bear the thought of strangers reading and interpreting them in hellish ways. I don’t even let the strangers I know sneak glances at the folded white sheet of paper sliding out of the back pocket of my faded corduroy. This is not a lack of self-esteem but a failed lesson learnt from a crash-and-burn kind of story I like to think of when my mind is drowned in fatigue.
The story ends in shameful glances from across the dinner table in the company of guests I didn’t want to invite because we did not have enough cutlery to serve dinner with. But you went ahead anyway because you always dreamt bigger than I did—is what I thought for a very long time. I now know that your real dreams were made of desperation and intimacy, and the big ones you just didn’t care for as much because nobody ever denied you the access to your privilege. Nobody ever asked you to not step out in the sun or spend your nights less carelessly or simply remember to get your money’s worth.  Your interests never clashed with reality. You were too fortuitous for your own good.
I like to remember you for all these things and more: more being your physical attributes  and the battles you were fighting till your last breath. For all these battles changed you in ways that made me stand like a rebel in your shoes.


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