Sometimes an idea or an expression springs in your head and the urge to experiment where or what this thought can manifest into meant the urge to write. Sometimes when feeling like you are the only soul in an empty campus on a public holiday meant the urge to write. Sometimes when the coldest of all nights and the cruelest of all minds meant the urge to write.

Sometimes when everything bad happens, I write.

I am surprised at all the things I have written about, when in fact all these things only truly meant one thing.

Some people write about finding themselves stuck in the snow on the way home, or the coffee that spilled on their white shirts just before a meeting. But I find joy in writing about waking up one day and deciding I don't love as much as I want to anymore (maybe, not at all to start with); about thinking I had the perfect chance to catch up with someone else's shadows, but instead fell and reached out to nothing but a handful of earth and grass; about knowing someone else's existence meant knowing my own existence�maybe my whole life happens for these reasons.

Yet this life has come to a halt, recently. Like how I hate to feel I am in someone else's movie, watched and judged by a million others, I hate to feel I am writing for someone to read. Words straight from the head, fueled by the heart, must be the purest of all things. And when this is to be contaminated by the thought of being observed, these words become weapons, waiting to make someone angry, someone cry, someone smile, someone remember�words with an ulterior motive.

I want to believe I can avoid these kinds of words. I wish I can go into a deep sleep, sleep it all off, and wake up feeling just like before, unstained. And now my life has come to this halt, in between moments between sleep between formation of words.

But aren't the words with motives still words? Aren't they words that come straight from my mind? This mind that wants to make someone angry, someone cry, someone smile or remember? Why am I still writing if not for these things?

Every time I write, I keep picturing all these familiar faces in front of their computer screens, scanning every single letter, making out every single sentence, forming pictures and scenarios in their heads. I hate to have to think about what goes on in their minds at times like these. Writing is a funny thing because even while the words are mine, they come alive only in someone else's imagination.

I have made a mistake, letting someone in to my thoughts. And now I feel like I have been taken advantage of. It might be a while before I can look at my own thoughts as they are. For now I feel like becoming a different person, I wish I can run away for a while.

So, as a word of advice, if you ever find yourself being written about, the only thing you can do is enjoy it. Never mind the details that weren't written, were written, 'wrongly' written, because this is not what writing is about�because the writer probably isn't even writing about you and what 'really' happened. And because demanding an explanation would mean defeating the sole purpose of actually reading it in the first place.

Writing is a funny thing because it is both a solution to and a cause of my problems. I wish I can write to only myself but this is not what words are meant for. I am confused by where these words are leading me to. I know I am cutting myself off from the only form of release I have come to know, but I need to stay away from words in order to feel that these words�my words�are important words.