Claiming to write so you’d understand is as crazy as “claiming to write you so you’d understand”. It’s a useless and an absurd comparison but it has to be this way because there is nothing as ludicrous as that claim.
Writing strikes me as a process of spilling myself. I spill myself unto the pen which in its turn spills itself unto the paper, in a way which i don’t always control – as if it is a different entity with a mind and soul of its own – but it understands me and expresses me better than i do.
In the origin, it was life that was spilled in us and that continues to spill over unto everything we touch. My role, i have found, is to provide it with the space it needs to be True, Good and Beautiful.
Frankly, i can never claim to understand Truth, Goodness or Beauty, i just cherish them, and hope to do so with enough decency and enough courage that will allow me to abandon myself to them, and in them to abandon myself to myself :
To endlessly wake up to the stranger that i am, and tirelessly drink from the glass which he offers. And though he may not be appealing and his glass be bitter, i drink it all the same. And when it’s finally nighttime and his waters drown me, i reach out for the glass one more, raise it with one hand like a trophy, and drink to Life.
And then, after a while someone will trample upon me, covered in whole by sheets of paper and brutally grasping onto a pen. Maybe then, i’d tend to their drinking needs . . . Maybe then, they’ll make their own toast to Life.

Eddy Abi Younes