Where do you write?
I write when alone in solitude at the right-most corner of my room, on my desk filled with books, notebooks and a clutter of papers, each holding a secret and wonder of their own. I write at a coffee shop on the Notes of my cellphone, a dark mocha frappe without whipped cream stares at me half-finished. I write in a hotel room I share with my grandmom, looking over people passing by – each leading on with their life, as I contemplate on mine. I write in a classroom filled with students yearning to know about vectors and electromagnetic fields, and solace is found in a verse on my scratch paper.
I think the question I ought to answer is:
WHEN do you write?
I write when my fingers ache for the pen; my soul and body in unison, longing for the thing they’re meant to do. When the world is nothing but an oyster of noise, after air drumming in my own bubble with my “Something Good” playlist. I write when the thoughts inside overwhelms, and as I open my eyes the key to decluttering lies on my fingertips against the keyboard.
Is it a matter of when and where, or a why? All these aside, what counts in the end is that I do.