i often find my eager fingers centimenters away from a blank paper. it is always as if words reside at the last layers of the tip of this god-made pens. and they remain inside. like acid and pent-up testimonies of state-sanctioned crime scenes. it is as if i was decisively mute.

i thought i was scared. but i wasn't. perhaps, who should i be scared of? i realized it was an active choice. i decided to not write—clouded by stacks of excuses i would make up to pacify my guilt. i know i owe it to the mute. i have sinned them. my silence have furthered this. and how could have i known—that there are a thousand more complacency and thousands who looked away? or a million.

i have manned my own words, hushing each of them at the bottom of my lungs. but every desperate breath scratches the walls of my throat because words are words—most of the time, they are meant to be said. a word to some may be their last breath; a word from the privilege is a choice, for a thousand more paragraphs can still be uttered. and what can a thousand paragraph do to me that it have not done to others? so i write. now, more than ever, it is imperative to write. i release each phrase; each emptying my mind, each hopefully filling up the silence.

they said, "you are a good writer,"—am i? had i been?

while it is true that being a writer is putting your thoughts out there, to speak about yourself, it begs us the question: do we stop speaking when the words are not about us anymore? do we stop being a writer because it is easier?

simply: do we stop being a writer? maybe, yes; when the mind ceases and the hands rest.

however, do we stop being human?