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8 March 2010
7:52

No, that’s not true. There’s always something to be said. But the more I say, somehow, the more I want to hide away from the things that have been said; the more I want to disown that which is mine.

I keep away from my words, and also words of others.I keep away from my words, and also words of others. But I don’t know why I do this to myself- why I keep myself from words that illuminate, that evoke, that caress, that break.

Saturday, I paused in a bookstore for the first time this year, and I couldn’t help but reach out and pick up an anthology, gently fingering its smooth cover, before I flipped to the middle of the anthology. (Beginnings don’t interest me – we all know how it begins. With a look, a love affair; not necessarily between he and she, but between reader and character.) (Endings don’t grab me – we all know how it ends. With a blank page.)

I almost cried, right there in the store, standing in front of the shelves lined with books and books asking to be read. I’m glad I didn’t, for the next reader to pick up tha anthology might not have understood the dark tear-stains on the yellowed paper. They might have mistaken the book to be defiled, and asked for a discount, instead of treasuring the book all the more for bearing marks of real human emotion.

Too much, too much is there, too much is felt.

And arrogantly, even in the whirlwind of emotions, I thought “I can write better than this. I can. Why, why am I hiding away?”

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~ by translating for peas on March 10, 2010.

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