"Why must you feel the need to hide?" she asked. "Are you still constrained about letting out what you truly feel? I've been reading your everyday rants for the past five years."
"I don't want you to read me." I said.
"What do you mean? If you don't want people to read them, then why publish them?"
"That question answers your question earlier, spot on!" and I tried to contain a familiar smile behind the screen.
"But you're not stopping. You're merely just hiding...even running away." she protested. "If you don't intend to come back again, why not just shut down your site?"
"I wouldn't ask you to forget a first kiss nor the memory of his first breath when it caressed your nape. How can you suggest something so revolting and forbidden?"
"I don't understand you."
"I know." I said, my thoughts swimming with the memory when we first met in person, two years ago.
"Why would you write when nobody will read them?" she asked (and rather densely, I thought).
"Because my dear, I don't write for people to be entertained. I write because I am."
I cannot, on most times, understand why she couldn't understand my reasons. Maybe my reasons were similar to hers when she once told me to stop "stalking" her just because I accidentally stumbled upon her "secret site". I had no idea it was hers.
She's been "reading" my life religiously for the past 5 years now and I, hers. Yet, I have come to know her during the time and I find it rather quite disappointing to know that reading is all that she's been doing all these years.
I don't want people to read me. My life is not a book. I write because I want to claim the right to tell the story of how my life is, in MY own eyes, and how I felt like, while living my life. As an egotistical writer, I must admit, I love to hear feed backs about what people think of with what I write but as a soul, I don't need someone to tell me I have a good way of stitching up words.
My words, they are a refuge, an attempt to define the undefined, to reach what cannot be reached, to breathe out what chokes my heart.
I write because I live. And because I am not a master of time. I grow old and I forget. I am emotional and I feel too strongly about things a little too much, at times. I write because I know life is fleeting and I want to remember. Amongst all the other things, I write because I am a confused girl with longings and wild vivid imaginations. I write because more often than what I'd like it to be, my heart is much, much bigger than my mind and I cannot contain everything at the same time.
How easy to lose sight of passion and life when along with them, embraces longing and dreams. How easily are our visions blurred.
We could both be looking at the same picture and yet have very different focal views.
