I am no poet, no writer. Just someone who writes poetry. A poet dabbles with the discipline of the language. I hardly. It’s not false modesty compelling me to keep this nook or cranny for my attempts, rather it’s the liberty I enjoy from writing about life’s accessories, under a special veil, which strengthens the endeavor.
When I see everyone else writing, it makes me want to write more, write better. It makes me want to read more and learn. And it is precisely this network of words in books or newspapers, online journals and academic readings, blogs and social networking sites, even the dialogues in films and theater, which thwarts the claustrophobia induced by an often isolated, everyone-for-himself world. The words I read and hear, the words I feel and incorporate into my own body of expression, offer comfort and safety. Most often the words are simple, the thoughts edible. But they never fail to be extensions of the spirit. They do not rely on the glory of language’s redemptive prowess rather in its ability to restrict to inches our earthly sentiments.
This liberation through limitation inspires me. So when it is hard to stay on balance, that is when I read and write, and read and write more. And it gives me hope when I pass on, tragically, comically and metaphysically, the body of work I leave will transcend this elbow room, becoming in itself, a liberation through limitation.