Where I’m From

I am from a couch

From paper and films

I am from the quiet and day-dreamings

I am from the canals of Venice

(Capillaries that ran through my veins into the wide ocean

I am a gondolier seeking freedom and familiarity)

I am from Malaysia

Nasi Lemak and Bak Kut Teh

I am from the place where we speak too many languages and would love all of it

Even now,

I am from the sea

From paper and films

What can I do to get you there

How I Fell For Writing

Days like this makes one wonder. Working from home yet slightly away from public sight, my mind roams whenever it is not occupied. Moving from one thing to another, my references came in forms of drama, anime, novel and songs. This piece of emotion. Their desire and motivation. The story behind each character. A world where it only exists in fictional.

It’s a chores sometimes to emphatize. But those are the stuff that fuels word; waves that carry a ship. Being hole-less will make me afloat.

The love that binds me was the same fluttering which moves me. Living by itself is an experience. And the way it could transcend, one of it, was through writing.

At first it was merely a way to achieve my selfish desire. All the fantasy and fictional story moves to fulfill my dreams. It was a simple mission to have fun. And it comes in chapters, ending in satisfaction while it unrolls itself to a complete story.

Yet reading brings me to various literature, setting more examples of my shortcomings. I eventually found the fun in creating. Playing with words and their format. The rhythm and rhyme. First alphabets of your hidden secret.

My hands soon ventures out to write anything it can get their hands on. Prompt generators. Thoughts about another blog. The fleeting issue in a drama. This progresses to the fact that I have not written any diary for as long as I can remember starting my creative writing. I guess the reality cease to be the voice in my heart. They lay in my memories, mostly backing the things that I have written but almost always nothing close to its original resemblance.

And I continue to ask myself why.

And how I did not stop.

The closest answer I could give is probably because I get a certain relief and clarity after I gave my thoughts, opinion and emotion a shape. And a place to stay, snuggled up in stacks and books untouched other than the dust that accumulated, my writings would bring a little life when I go back to it.