She blamed for and I had

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep. 

I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write. 

My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read:

She 

blamed 

for 

I 

had 

and 

she 

will 

visit 

the 

hills 

by 

the 

…

the

…

the

Everybody wants you to be aggressive, passionate, like the way they show in movies, the character, that writer, who lights up a cigarette and finishes a prose by the time he finishes his smoke, that writer that bends over his papers and makes crisp sounds with the pen across the paper, not looking once at the people trying to converse with him, not looking once at the person, the only one that looks legitimately lazy and depressingly relatable. 

To wait for that peak of excellence, that rush, that motivation, and to climb the wrong peak of realization, the crisis, where you are persuaded to believe that words are no more the release, and if they are, they should be so only if your sub-conscience is blind. 

If they can see, then lock all the doors and windows and squeeze a sock over the cracks. 

It’s better to not write.

For what is your true purpose then, if you go around person after person, creating a pain that they never thought was possible, the pain of a crisis, of realization, of self doubt? 

Aren’t philosophies of life better when they’re in the dark?

Or do we really need to compromise the insanity of ours and everybody else’s for the sake of exposing what is real?

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Is it better to write?

- Anushruti Adhikari (अनुश्रुति अधिकारी )