People say: “Mulki, your writing is so deep and beautiful. You’re so talented.”
Nah b, I aint talented. I’m damaged, scarred, burnt. See how I can make these words grow fingers and caress your mind, how they can stir up emotions in you that you didn’t even know existed, how these words you’ve known for years take on a new form, seep through to forgotten memories you’d rather not revisit?
Tragedies carved out deep tracks in my soul, that’s how. A sculpture is marvelled at but you don’t notice the countless hours it took to break, disfigure, chip away at the original block of stone with a sharp chisel.
Nah darling, I’m not talented. I mean, I’m talented, just not in that way. I’m talented in messing up. In keeping people out. In seeming ice cold and indifferent. In figuring people out way before they even notice me, to gain leverage. I don’t watch movies. Because I can guess the ending by the title. It’s like I have an x-ray vision, and I’m dying from the radiation.
The ink with which I write is drawn from a well that runs way deep within me. It’s my soul’s blood.
Be careful with what you wish for.
I asked Allaah for patience. He gave me hardships.
I asked Him for love. I got people who hurt and betrayed me.
I asked Him for wisdom. I got pain on my platter.
I asked Him to make me a writer. I went through hell, and at the end of it I was told
” Now that you’ve stood for something, now that you’ve stood up to live, you may sit down to write.”
And you see, when I write, I don’t think first and write second. I don’t write at will. I’m merely a medium through which my emotions manifest themselves when they wish to do so. So I sit at my laptop, close my eyes to see, to hear the words in my mind that want out. Then I leak ,I bleed, I emit the words onto the keyboard. It’s like I’m playing a melody on a piano, one I learnt by heart in my childhood and now play without paying mind to the sheet. My fingers know what I don’t ; as they dance and pause and waltz across the keyboard, I don’t have a direct connection to what’s being communicated until the buzzing in my chest ,the knocking,the trouncing ceases.
It’s no child’s play.
But oddly, now that the scars have faded, the wound healed, I would not want to live in any other way. I’d rather live on the precipice of life, my life being one long cliffhanger that leaves deep gashes to the palms of my hands in my frantic efforts to hang on to life. I’d rather live in pain to court passion, as opposed to having a convenient, linear life.
You can’t leave a mark on this world without incurring scars of your own.