Disclaimer: This claim is not necessarily where I, the writer, came from. If it looks like where you came from, somehow, then you too are one of those people who look like me. That makes two.
Where is the writer from?
The writer came from the place where babies come from.
Between walls of struggle, personal defeats and pain. From streets with open fire, gun violence, cultural eminence, failed states, wrong puntification, skipped purification and many more of those things like power-outtage, civil outrage, missing monies, love for monkeys and casual seduction. From places with intense light, cold nights, buried frights, simple plights like watching a living man die in one’s hands.
The writer came from birth, rebirth and uncertainty.
The writer might have forgotten how to speak, how to squeak, how to sneak into thoughts when difficult times come: that’s where writers come from. From the forgotten, the begotten or the forsaken.
The writer comes from age to sage.
The writer comes from rage, and the writer craves beginnings. The writer is from heaven and earth.
The writer is from form but cannot be uniform.
The writer is from the source of all sauce and gloss. The writer doesnt remember where (s)he came from. The writer lives but leaves when origin is no more original. The writer is from root-words, root-wars, from truth, the root of all good and evil.
The writer is from a tree but did not evolve.
The writer emerged from where weary hearts were strengthened. The writer is from the future, from the past but has passed the present time. The writer originated from coarse memories to a course worth dying for.
The writer belongs to the divine.