Never have I not been engaged in the act of writing. Of course, the pressures of material life have kept me from writing now and then. But even then my mind was always ticking with ideas. I don’t know whether I had the ability to stem the flow of my thoughts and to exert control over them. But I know I never felt any desire to rein them in. Many of those thoughts just ran away and never came back. There have also been those that only appeared to run away but actually stayed buried inside and later expressed themselves when I put pen to paper. Writing to me is a habit of the mind. And poetry is my ideal. It is close to my inner being. Right or wrong, it allows me to give vent to my feelings and emotions. Poetry, to me, is a vehicle to recover from anything. No matter how stressful the situation, I have been able to endure it, hanging on to the tip of the one word that takes shape in my mind. This habit of talking to myself sometimes even manifests in the movement of my lips, when my thoughts are given […]