I am not a writer

I am writing this so that you may understand because I can’t. I don’t pretend to know the way the world works or how the tides flow because I don’t. I don’t presume that I can understand the way you feel or how your emotions are squaring your moods because I can’t. Actually, I don’t know the reason why I am writing this.
Writing is something that is supposed to get stuff out of your system while resolving conflicts within yourself. But sometimes it is a pointless endeavor because nothing ever gets done. The world somehow never changes. But still, I am writing this.

I don’t venture on the storylines wherein one is arising to be victorious at the end because of an enduring theme that goodness triumphs over evil. This is not one of those write-ups wherein I stand before you to market myself so you can peruse and procure bits and parcels of me. This is not one of those psycho-anal babbles wherein I will play with your mind by telling you things that sometimes even I don’t understand. This is not one of those pieces wherein I could get all the credits and the compliments and the admiration just because I happen to write something that tickles your fancy or some lines of realization that makes you re-examine how you are living your life. This ain’t it.
This is I. Just one of those guys you just happen to know, your drinking buddy, companion, lover, one with the crowd. The one who sometimes don’t give a shit and has ideas and opinions that sometimes are not that cool.
I am as witty or as dumb as anyone of us.

I write because sometimes it is a great escape. I write because there were times when all I really wanted was to fly away. I wanted to be swept away by the great, great tides of wind. Sometimes there is no point in braving the storm when at the end of the day you go home alone. There is no point in calling late at night to say some things when you already chose to end it. No point dreaming for something that isn’t there anymore. No point staying. No point saving something that is already gone.

I write because I wanted to.
No, I am not a writer.
I just happen to express things easily in writing rather than talking, although I can be otherwise but it depends on who is listening or who is reading.
Maybe I am just numb. And numb is the new deep as someone I knew says. But I am not deep.
Crazy, maybe – but then what do we know about sanity anyway when the world has long been insane.
Just where do we draw the line between reason and madness? Maybe the world is just too real it stings my eyes.

Anyway, I have been advised to stop writing things that are heavy on the edges. It makes the reader feel gloomy. But that is not my intention.  I write because I ought to.

But I am not a writer.