So, let’s address this once and for all.

Why do I write?

Quite frankly, I’m forced. It’s a gun upon my head, a compulsion.

Like the tale of Vikram and Betal. The King is bound by his royal promise to the people of his kingdom, But Betal has an annoying way of spending the time it takes to get him there.

As the resolute king huffs and puffs uphill towards the tree with Betal up his back, Betal recites morally riddled tales into the night. At the end of every tale, there is a weighted, expectant pause - a question for the king. If the King has an answer but stays silent, his head would burst open and it’s game over for everyone. If he does answer though, the spirit escapes back to the tree and poor Vikram has to go back and fetch him all over again.

A perfectly crafted compulsion; the rules are clear, but the right thing to do, isn’t. A grand dilemma.
I am born into this human world, and hence I am bound to observe. I observe and hence I mull over it for several weeks, and inevitably, I reach a conclusion. But you see, the conclusion is sometimes amusing, a revelation of sorts (atleast to me). The urge to just catch somoene on the streets by the shoulder, shake them, and tell them about my findings, is quite strong. But the saner thing is this: to put it out here, for the world to see.

The best part is that the world will not see, and that works in my favor. I’ve put it out on the internet, and by rule, everyone is free to read it. That’s all the consolation that this little demon on my shoulder needs.

And that is why sometimes, unfortunately, my writinng gets a little cryptic (and hard to read, I know.) You might interpret it in a hundered different ways, or worse, you might get entangled in the elaborate web of words that I’ve laid and loose your will to make it to the other side.

A great risk. Why do I do it then? I ask you to be a little empathetic as I reveal my reason.
It is because… well, I feel a little embarassed. With truth, comes vulnerability. A gateway to my mind, a deep confession - albiet temporary. I might confess to something with feeling, emotion, and conviction. Yet, that won’t define me. I might confess to crimes I never committed, colored in memories corrupted with time.
Or maybe I might blurt out the definite truth, and though I want you to know dear reader, I cannot tell it to you myself.
No, that would be a betrayal. She likes to believe I’ve kept her hidden.

And so I write in riddles, in references, and in metaphors. Everything that you may not understand is a concrete reference that exists, but it is burried and if you are astute enough (correction: patient enough) to catch any of those references, I would be quite impressed.
Impressed, and gratified - for dear friend you would then have fulfilled perhaps an artist’s only ever desire - to be seen.

So for that, I thank you.

Thank you for you time.
Thank you for attempting to understand.
See you very soon.