Why I write

Why I write

Why writing

Inside me, between the blood vessels, the muscles, the thick layers of fat, there is a magical creature I call it human.

Science tells me that light reflected from a leave will land on my retina, sends a signal to the brain and it will recognise it. But the magical human inside will see the sun softly touching the leaves, transforming a dead branch into a green one, through it I see, recognise and understand summer, trees, life and death.

I come to know life through my senses, and every time I sense new or even old experiences whether hearing, seeing, or whatever, a little something sticks with the magical creature inside, and suddenly a volcano erupts. I find the words boiling in a big cauldron inside my heart trying to jump out, some escape and travel with my blood looking for an exit: they first go to my throat wanting to be shouted out, but I hold them back, I remain silent. They then rush to my fingers to fall on the paper, I could feel the heat as I write them, as they slowly travel from my hand to the pen to the paper. The bubbling continues and my memories and emotions start to unravel, every second of my life wants to squeeze a word out, even the moments I didn't live but imagined living are sending their share.

I start writing stuff down while inside I could feel the words boiling, jumping, running, crashing into each other forming more words, more thoughts, more joy, more pain. The words race and fight trying to reach my finger tips and escape the mortal hell inside to the promised land on the paper, and become immortal.

Eventually the volcano calms down and I start looking at the new born words on the paper, my words, my feelings brought to life before me. The pain is great, 

though the reward is greater, 

like giving birth, 

we have to go through labour.

Few minutes will pass and suddenly I start to hate my words, my new-born, my writing, because I could see the human inside through these wrords. Sad, weak, lonely , dark, angry, and often frustrated, mostly misunderstood and usually miserable, all of that was inside and now I am looking at it., at him, at me.

When I was a teenager I used to hide my words from the world, happy of my produce, but also ashamed of it at the same time. I would keep the paper for few days and before anyone finds it I would burn it, burn the cradle of the newly born words and watch my feelings dying with it. I was sad that I couldn't keep my words, could not share it with the world, joyful that I was more powerful than my feelings, more alive than my dead words. The smoke would go up, 

the letters, 

words,

 sentences, 

meanings, 

feelings, 

all become thin air, 

taking flight from the boundaries of my paper, 

the limits of my world, 

to go anywhere, 

everywhere 

in the world.

Years later, I stopped the burning, could not stop writing.. 

More years passed, more writing, more words burning, not the paper, but me.

Ahmad Baker 

2013

The bench stories - last story

The bench story 3

This bench has been a constant feature in my daily routine, and the people sharing it through the seasons and years have shared parts of their lives with me, some is real life, most are things I imagined.

Many people I have seen growing old, loosing companions and probably dying as I passed them on my daily life journey. There was also some that I have seen setting on the bench as lovers, then having new members running around them sharing the joys of the bench. There was a lady I passed so many times when she was a pregnant woman seeking some rest on this bench, later she was a mother with a baby, then two children visiting the bench.

So many stories I could share about the people shared the bench, but I never had a chance to find the story behind the bench itself and in who's memory it came to existence. One day, out of months and years of rushing through life I decided to make the time to know the bench. I arrived there with one purpose only, to sit on it and spend time feeling it and watching people, like me, rushing to pass it and pass the people sitting on it.

It was not special, nor magical, it was just an old wooden bench, uncomfortable to sit on unless you are really tired, and there was many people tired of life and living who needed that short rest. I looked at the engraved metal piece reading: in memory of, but it was rusty and very old, the name of the person it meant to remember, to glorify has fallen off. I looked around, underneath, everywhere to find, but it has gone, as the memory of the person, and the bench, me, the people shared it, and the people passed it are destined to same fate, oblivion.

Quickly I was tired of life, and tired of sitting on the bench, tired of watching life going by and tired of trying to find the unknown. I wanted to use my imagination to create a story for the person behind the bench, the memories they wanted us to remember, but I could not. Instead I felt it was my name that was missing, and my life has ended with no trace but a bench on the side of the park watching other lives making their own memories.