I Write

How am I supposed to write when the world around me is falling apart? I heard a writer needs an enormous amount of time being alone. Practically, I am alone, I am living in a city on my own without my family or friends, or someone dearest whom you want to share your joy and sorrows. But technically, I am not alone, I am sharing a room with three others, I am doing an 8-hour day job. But still, my heart aches with pain when I can’t find time alone to write. I want to write the whole. I want to write about the sweeper in the street who is heading towards home after a tiresome day, I want to write about the little boy and girl playing near the street, I want to write about the little butterflies making their way out through this polluted air. And to write about butterflies, I must see a butterfly, I must observe how he flaps his wings, how he draws the honey from the flower that I love, how he sees the world with his eyes. I must know him. I am tired of this concrete. I am tired of these people who replace everything natural with some sand and cement and brick in the name of development. How developed will we be if our next generation can’t get to see the colorful butterflies, marvelous light of fireflies, what if they can’t hear the crickets’ sound at night anymore?

This concrete illusive world is swallowing me, the never-stopping sound of development hitting hammer on my head. I want to run, I want to escape, give me the title an escapist, I don’t mind. I don’t mind if the world doesn’t become so developed that searching for greens feels like searching for water in a desert. I don’t want to belong in a world where I can’t see the first light of the sun or sunset because of some tall buildings who are standing in my view in the name of development, where I can’t smell the mud in the rain because all the mud is lying under the bed of concrete, where rain can’t reach you, where the sparrows don’t come. I don’t want to belong in this type of world.

I feel awful to myself, this feels like hypocrisy where I can’t do anything about it but just to write. And to write means me to revolt, to revoke, revoke against the enormous strength. What am I if I am nothing? Who am I if I am something? Who knows? And to know, to get closer to the strength, I write.