WHY I WRITE
Many might wonder why I have chosen this path. Their doubts are justified. Writing isn't a very lucrative business. You cannot be rolling in dough by writing some poems and books here and there.
However, is it necessary that the path I chose must be lucrative and fetch income? Must I always seek riches and luxury?
It is as if the sole purpose in life is to marry, get settled, and seek a lucrative job; Money and more money--that seems to be the nexus of human activities. Our childhood passions and ambitions fleet as we grow into adulthood; our "first love", our fantasies! All seem to be immaterial before our desire to earn money and lead a "settled" life
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However, are we satisfied? Do we truly love what we do?
That answers the question. I write because I love to write--I find solace and contentment in it; I find a means of fulfilling my existence--a means whereby I can live life to the fullest! Money? Riches? Luxuries? Ha! What pleasure there is in indulging in ephemeral things? Too volatile, I must say! You run behind it;you crave for it; you chase it unto eternity, only to realize that it comes to nothing.
In fact, everything comes to nothing, but that is a different story altogether.
Another reason why I write is to disseminate all that I think and contemplate upon.
But why must the world listen to my voice? Who am I?
You there! Yes, lucky you! You who read this post. You are probably enjoying snacks, insinuated comfortably on your sofa. You are probably surfing the net or have your eyes glued to the telly. And you are bored! And hungry too! So you call in your servant and order him to fetch you more goodies and all. And then you complain on the internet how bane this quarantine period is. You complain that quarantines empties you from within; you feel that you are being stifled. And so, you post long melancholic messages on Facebook or WhatsApp OR search for memes on Quora and Instragam.
After some time, you lounge about and fall asleep.
Somewhere down the alley, some beggar emerges and cries; None heed to his tribulations. Hunger and thirst tantalize him. He doesn't have a roof above his head, let alone an internet connection. He probably has not consumed food for weeks and during this worldwide lockdown, his already erratic means of subsistence have been depleted completely. He cannot even afford to complain. He can afford to sleep unfed though.
How does this concern you? You could've been in his place. Your luxury is a matter of sheer luck, dude.
To make you sympathize and stop complaining, I write.
You! Yes, you! Rambunctious and happy-go-lucky teenager! Hark!
You! Yes, you! Budding social activist and armchair politician! Hark!
Yes, I speak to you.
You have probably never known war. You have never donned a soldier's uniform. You have never lost a sweetheart. You have never seen blood.
You still post on Twitter about raging wars and staging rebellions and all! Perfect!
I am reminded that Chief Seattle had said in the 1850s that youth is repulsive and repugnant. How comfortably do you talk of war and blood? Your mothers, who have sons to lose, know better.
To make you realize that life ain't the utopia you think it is,
To make you realize what true WAR is,
To make you realize that life isn't your tablet or smartphone or your Twitter/Fb followers,
I write.
For an author has a duty to fulfill.
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