On Writing in a Foreign Language

A necklace I bought from Yogyakarta. The scorpio had already dead before the maker made it.

By writing I don’t mean solely to write, it also means writing then showing it to the world with its millions of possibilities. I love to write, I’m not quite sure how it started. Maybe when I was 7 or 8, with a pencil in my hand, I found a ruled paper quite intriguing. Filling it with words was so satisfying.

I’m ashamed of myself by not letting my mind out of its cage. Yet I think I know now how it started. As for someone whose mind always wandering, sporadically, impolitely, fuck-offly, finding the right words in the right language to share is another form of voyage. Then here is why, no matter how absurd, how not-nationalist it might sounds, I find myself at home sharing what I’m thinking, smelling, hugging, loving, necking, fucking, kissing, seeing, falling, digesting in a foreign language.

Continue reading “On Writing in a Foreign Language”