they took me by the hand,
and took me to a place
filled with drugs, alcohol, and booze.
they pointed at a guy who sat at the bar;
his legs were crossed,
cigar was burning slowly in his right hand,
his head stood on top of others
and in his left hand, he had a glass filled with scotch.
surrounded by people he ignored,
they were taking turns to ask him something,
to hear him speak something, to get seduced
by his pretentiously sewed words.
they pointed at him, my friends
and said, “Look, that is how a writer looks!
That is how he behaves; That is how he speaks;
That is how he moves, that is–
that is how a writer should dress.”
I knew not of these things,
I never knew they held any weight.
I mean, if I dress as though I am living in the 19th century
will that improve my writing? -if Yes, I will also dress…
and if not, then– what’s the point?
writing, in my eyes, was always about making
those unconscious– conscious about this world,
not making those unconscious conscious
about the existence of the writer. (which, turns the writer into a clown.)
to me, writing was never about entertaining,
writers were never supposed to be like that.
to entertain, there are other people more suited for that;
actors, singers, dancers…
writers are here to tell a truth as they see it, they are not here to act.
but, what can a simple man, like me,
equipped with a single-simple pen know.
when put in scale with writers who wear writers clothes
what can a simple man, like me, dressed with simple clothes
know of what this world craves, of what this world needs to know.