I was disillusioned by the power of the pen so quit writing. My inability to support my belief in street protest as a potent means of resistance, with action made my pen unworthy in my eyes to express my innermost ideals and persuasions. How could I write about the merits of street protest while I myself stayed cocooned in the comfy environs of my benign, innocuous existence? How could I exhort the spirit of this nation, the light of every household to glow selflessly, to sacrifice its splendor to illuminate the dark alleys of despondency where all of us are stuck together? I fail to convince my own parents to break out of this fog of selfishness which is thickened every time anyone of us shuts our glass doors to the incumbent disaster; doors that shatter only when â€œITâ€ comes knocking. How can I then mourn the listlessness and apathy over the political games, concern for which we find enough t express in hiding in our drawing rooms. How can I ridicule that dread and fear which is used to justify my own shackles?
I resume writing because thatâ€™s my only tool. I am that proud â€œbratâ€, member of the â€œflower-powerâ€ generation â€œwho are (/is) more afraid of their parents than the fiefdoms of dictatorshipâ€. My intellect should not be the sorry victim of this ambivalence. It continues to spurn out ideas which have been calling for expression. My activism will have to do with these few scribbled ramblings for now.