I write for many reasons. My words are a mirror — reflecting not just who I am, but what I’ve become. I write autobiographically. I write to stir, to shift perspectives. My life feels like a game of Snakes and Ladders, though the board seems crowded with more snakes than ladders. Through my writing, I warn my comrades — watch out for the snakes. That’s my way of being a Good Samaritan. A modern-day samurai with a pen for a sword.
I’ve always believed — perhaps foolishly — that there’s no such thing as pure fiction. Every story is reality in disguise, twisted, reshaped, and reborn. In my case, it’s always autobiographical, at least in part. My offbeat poems, my eccentric soliloquies — they’re cathartic. Writing drains the poison, like a medicinal leech. It’s my penance for unconfessed mortal sins. Whether this is a universal phenomenon or merely the quirk of a half-mad, self-proclaimed writer — I can’t say.
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