Why I Do It

I write because it comes naturally.
I write because I can neither draw nor sing well.
I write because I can describe the world in my own manner.
I write to capture my perceptions of reality around me, to better understand that reality and share it with others.
I write to challenge the limits of my own literary dexterity or the lack of it.
I write because it is therapeutic.
I write because it adds art to waffling and thereby justifies it.
I write because I don’t speak much because it is not a social activity.
I write to assert my freedom.
I write because, more than challenges, I like impossible tasks.
I write because amidst the indifference of life, moments of happiness are too transient.
I write because before mathematics, engineering, computational fluid dynamics, there was language.

Thank You

For a shelf of stolid volumes
Each more than an atonement
for sheeny toys forefeited

for time willingly made
which allowed windfall rain holidays
to be transformed into drives though national park

for silent sacrifices
which can only truly be appreciated
when one is richer for the experience

for doggedly insisting
that love and learning
is more important than money

for droplets of explanation
which only partially slaked my thirst
for an understanding of my faith

for only answering questions
after first encouraging me
to hazard a guess

for kitchen experiments
some successful, some unappreciated
each a challenge to this day

for standing head and shoulders above my life
daring me
to always do more
to be more
to be the best I could be

they couldn’t get you any other way
they couldn’t get you fair and square
like a thief in that horrible night
anaesthesia announced only by the commencement
of a Hippocratic blame game
someone had to stop the bleeding buck.
you did.
They didn’t get you. Not really.
and till the end they certainly never could get your smile.