I am not a writer. I write to express, to clear the mesh of symbols I can read and think in, those black lines cloaking the words and sentences which keep me up in the night remains invisible to the outer world. They come and go. I can compare them to the sea froth touching my feet, or to the dark, ominous cloud bringing in the faint hope of rain after a prolonged period of heat but does not rain, I’ll refrain. I survive these ephemeral thoughts, thoughts teleporting into the lost world leaving a void for me to fill with laughter, conversations and responsibility which gives in to more ephemeral thoughts. The invisible knot that exists between me and the white paper forces me to not call myself a writer; will the knot disentangle or not is left to the reader, an understanding which is independent of my thoughts and my expressions. Therefore, before we reach any agreement detailing  what will come hereafter, delineating what troubles my head in the unholy hours, we must agree that I am giving you a key to enter this new world which is as much as yours as mine, which can never be yours in the sense of being because I am its architect. I, hereby, implore you to read patiently and ponder on the words to follow, agreement or criticism will follow its due course.

Two perfect strangers can bond over a cup of coffee, or so they say. Two perfect strangers now have only one possible forum to bond over – my questions, elaborations, illustrative solutions, and your comments, intruding, interfering, cross-questioning, opinions and alternative situations you think you could have been in. Hopefully we will have a proper monologue, an advantage for those who scribble words and force people to read them. I get to decide which room to let you in.  I believe you are one of the future citizens who will be handed this crumbling cake to feast on and pass it on thereafter. I hope you have asked yourself whether you will pass on the essence of human existence as a blimp in the yet unraveled timeline or as an inclusive society where rights are not ascribed during birth but a statute strictly implemented even if it means sacrificing your material tendencies. I hope you religiously watch the sunset, or watch the raindrops rush on windowpane to trickle down to the end. I hope you are a parent who worries about the child unaware of being orphaned by all animal instincts throughout history. I hope you are a guard of innocence unafraid of the warmongers, hoarders responsible for hungry mouths, bureaucratic heads that will kill if need be; you are the hope I hope for to end misery one step at a time.

I welcome you, unnamed identity, to explore The Diary of an Observer.