The Diarist

It's been eight years since I tapped the keyboard for my first blog entry. And for what it's worth, I've learned not only from my stories, but from those who got to read mine as well. I became a better person out of this notion that all my failures have to be written, and from this fear, the struggle for harmony would become a conscious undertaking. The blog speaks to me, it watches my every move.

As I write these lines, I chose to cut the umbilical cord that attaches me to my desktop computer. To be in a place where I could grasp my thoughts and put these pulses on the notepad of my mobile phone. Looking at the bleeding sky, I close my eyes and let the breeze caress my dry skin. A succession of dog barks in the distance puncture the chilly night air. While here, at the spot close to the unlit stairwell where a ghostly apparition made its presence felt a few weeks ago,

I try to get drowned in silence.

Solitude and emptiness. The very reason this journal endures. This is my escape from the humdrum of everyday living: To make sense of my narrative and make it the footprint of my personal journey. It doesn't matter now if I get read or my prose still lacks artistic merits. As long as the pursuit of expression is there, and the creation is done with sincerity, then I have accomplished my purpose.

The diarist in me had prevailed.

May these sprawled words, should it ever get beyond the distillery of the final draft, affirm my faith that one weaves words not to be heard, but to share an experience: That a wordsmith never aspires fame, only respect from his readers. And should there come a time when the Souljacker gets tampered by someone's self-serving desire; a puppet with strings of a Capitalist experiment, I do hope to remember why this blog breathes

And dreams of permanence.

It only answers to no one but me. When one writes as if nobody reads, only then will words go on forever.