Not your closet writer anymore.

All our lives we’ve been taught that only the extraordinary deserves our attention, only the very brilliant worth our time. We’ve been forced to believe that the mediocrity is the disease we’re supposed to avoid at all costs and being average is a quality of shame. So we grow up hiding it behind the shades. Away from the eyes of spectators, we continue our relationship with our chosen art in secret. We draw, we paint, compose music, write poems, play the guitar, we do all those things that we love to do, but only after making sure nobody else is in the room. Because let’s face it, who wants the criticism? We don’t have the hearts to hear the words— your art is nice, but its not that great.

I’d know. I’ve been a closet writer for the longest time. What began as writing in back pages of classmate notebooks is now a full fledged hobby. I still have all those failed attempts of maintaining a daily journal in my cupboard. I still remember striving to come up with something decent enough to call it— a write-up, I still remember googling synonyms of words as a means to be called— smart. Sometimes I still write on this blog I created three years ago. I’ve written in secrecy for the longest of time. Only sharing them with my bestfriend (err.. um.. because she was never going to downright call any of my writing garbage anyway).

But since a year or so I’ve felt this sudden urge to share. To put my writing out there and by ‘out there’ I mean, here. Not because I’m brilliant or anything but only because I’m not.

Keep Notes on my phone is full of incomplete poetry and/or prose which are yet to see their moment of completion. The one I put up is one among the many. It’s unfinished and I think I like it just the way it is.