Thinking Aloud (2012)

 It’s always spiritually uplifting for me when I’m commended on my essays—or “notes”, as Facebook chooses to call it. To this day, I refuse to acknowledge that I am a writer. I am someone who thinks out loud and publishes his thoughts. That is all.


I jut down whatever comes into my head like a journalist chronicles events. Most of the things I write about are anecdotes and personal experiences. Yes, there are very real characters in the stories I tell. Yes, there is always a piece of me juxtaposed in the images one pictures in his head as he reads. Sometimes, it is difficult to tell where the truth ends and the storytelling begins. I always leave it up to the reader to decide but sometimes, the line between the real and imagined becomes fuzzy. More often than not, the reader begins to see himself amidst a make-believe backdrop. He is drawn and the characters in the play are those familiar to him; next of kin, colleagues, friends, lovers and enemies.


He is no longer vicariously experiencing my life. He is living out his own!


I find it hardly surprising that some take my “stories” too seriously. I cannot write anything I’ve not personally gone through. My life is my material. Once in a while I can poke fun at some. Other times I simply want to point out what I believe is wrong and should be corrected.


I am by no means a moralist. I learned quite early in this life never to pretend to be anyone other than myself—in all my frailty! I am incorrigible, weak, angsty, insane, irreverent, frank, scared, stupid, perverted and a million other things—aren’t we all?


Some would disagree with my views. I have to admit I am not wise or learned enough to make a statement worthy of faith. Some react adversely because they see a lot of themselves—in essence, they don’t like themselves very much or are too deluded to accept reality. Most would leave a comment saying how much they appreciate the piece.


Who do I write for?


I don’t give a rat’s sorry behind who reads what I write. I am the kind of guy who loves giving massages rather than getting one. I enjoy the feel of my fingers gliding across the keyboard. I am a well of thoughts that gets filled up every so often that I need to release some of it to the universe. I do acknowledge that whatever is in my head isn’t exclusively mine. People think the same thoughts. The only difference is that some express them better than most. I don’t write for those who find my work offensive. I don’t write for those who consider my stories an alternate reality. I don’t even write for those who love my notes!


I write mostly for myself and for those who want to open their minds to new things. I write for those who think my work is shit but end up acknowledging the brilliance behind it. I write for those who don’t feel what I feel; those who’ve never seen what I’ve seen; those who’ve never lived the way I have.


I write because I can and because I know someone is bound to read it—whether he likes it or else!


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