‘Your writing sucks,’ my high school teachers barked into my face. I became red-faced but he was right. My writing sucked and I know it still sucks. I don’t know why I write. Morever, I don’t know why I can’t write as good as others do. I am lost to know the reason. I only know one thing; I write because I grew up in school with friends, some of whom had memorized dictionary and some of whom won every major literary competitions held in school as well as in whole Bhutan competition. When I tried my hand in writing for the first time, there was only one person who encouraged me. He told me that I could write as well as anybody provided I put right efforts. He was my friend who is in Kanglung scooping up the prize in essays everytime he participated.
Although, I can’t write like him, I still try. I try writing atleast a page before I go to distant land called Sleep. I write. I tore the papers I write and throw into bin. Then I looked at dustbin reasoning myself that I can’t I write good enough. I can’t I write good enough because I am not putting right effort. I can’t write because I don’t analyze what I read. I can’t write because I see bottle half-empty when others see half-filled bottle. I take it everything in negative way. I was born that way and brought that way facing every injustice society can throw into my face. Every time, I want to write good things, the experience tells me other ways. I am unreasonably critical of everything and I don’t believe a word of what I read it. That could be the reason my writing sucks.
Anyway, I write because there is nothing else to do. I write just to kill the boring phase of my life as loneliness always tries to kill me. Loneliness is mirror reflecting the hell I went through in my life. I don’t want to feel lonely. I don’t want to remember the past. I just want to escape in some kind of magical vehicle. Previously, I used to drink and use drugs to forget the past but now my health doesn’t permit me. Writing is only way and last option left for me to escape loneliness.
Now I am addicted to some kind of writings, I don’t want to give up. I won’t give up even if I get well enough to drink and use drugs. Writing has become part of my life. My writing may be too bad to read. It may not be read by anyone. Still I will write for just sake of writing. I will write for my whims. I will not stop writing even if Lord Buddha tells me never to write. As long as I have ink in pen, as long as I have sheet of paper, as long as there is fire in my brain, as long as there is beat in my heart and as long as there is movement in my hand, I will keep on writing.