I write because I want to, I have to, I need to. There’s no other way I can deal with the swirling and bubbling of thoughts in my head without writing. I don’t necessarily write what I’m thinking, but I write because my head needs a release. At some points during mid-tumble it feels as though it might just explode. I wonder what a mind’s thought-explosion would look like, whether the images in my mind’s eye would splatter all over my walls, creating a mosaic of madness for all to see. Or maybe the explosion will be of words, letters and symbols, all jumbled into a mass ball of prose, or quite possibly sentences upon sentences that’ll take a lifetime to decipher. Or maybe, just maybe, the explosion will produce nothing but air – not hot, not cold, just… air.
It’s peculiar how writing makes the nonsensical make sense at the same time as causing a whole lot of confusion, but I write because it’s the only way I know how. It’s what prevents me from running wild in the streets screaming, “I just don’t know!”; it’s the best way to answer the “who am I” question without a concrete answer; it’s the way to vent without hurting anyone even though I may be hurting myself; and it’s the only way I can declare love without having to declare it at all, without losing a part of myself.
With my pen, I can be, whatever and whoever that may be, I am. I don’t fret as words are formed, however I’m all too aware of how seemingly simple phrases can be molded into an interpretation that fits the reader’s desires. Writing comes with its risks, but writers are forever risk-takers, and for as long as I am gifted with life, functional fingers and sight, I shall write. By His leave, I shall write.
© LaYinka Sanni, August 2012