Confession

This is my hundredth post. And to be honest, I can’t believe I have made it this far. Who would have ever thought that I had so much to say? That there were so many windows to peep into…

I am asked why I write here… why I have abandoned the poetry and the novel. We write what we know. Simple as that. But isn’t it interesting how what I know is something of what you know… of what you feel. What you have experienced. Someone once said that there was nothing more to write. That all the great writers have done it all. There is nothing left for our generation. No tale “stone” left to be turned.

It’s not that there are no more stories… they all sound familiar due to commonality. We are the same despite geography and bank accounts, skin color and faith. There is nothing separating us, really. Except our own perception. But interestingly enough, if you feel me in bone, it’s because you have felt it before behind your closed doors.

Perhaps there are no new secrets.

So… I will keep writing and peeking into lit windows at night. Discovery is what we make of it.


G.