why s/he must write

imagine what would happen if every wo/man in the world told the truth about his/her life. from the little, seemingly inconsequential truths ("i get giddy when i see heart-shaped mocha foam") to larger truths ("i am a survivor of gender-based violence").

in the past five years, i have written as a student of anthropology. while there is some space for the 'I' in reflexive ethnographies, it is expectedly limited. the strictures of academic writing constrain an outpouring of the self.

i am tentatively beginning to write in more fluid, creative ways to free my academically asphyxiated mind.

i am trying to speak from the heart. it is both harder and easier than i thought.

i have mulled over this entry for (six) months because i keep asking myself why - why this urge to write? what lies behind this instinctive sharing of fragmentary truths with any searchers who serendipitously stumble on this screen-space? (long sentence!)

i write because i can't not write. hardly eloquent, but it is what my heart murmurs. for now.