They asked me what I always write about, probing me harmlessly with a genuine curiosity. I write about the human experience, basically anything.
“So what do you write about? do you write about sex then?” Boys will be boys.
Ever since I started writing consciously, I’ve been exposed to multifarious worlds that are only visible with the opening of the literary eye. I write about the pregnant moon being a personification of ostracisation, I write about animals: that antelopes have to skip quickly across grasslands for slow movements are chances for rapacious vines to crush their rangy limbs.
Yet, I don’t know what I write about; what my writing falls under. If I confess that all I write about is the human experience, then why do I focus largely on grief and melancholy? What about the other bodily humours? an absence of the others then nullifies my stand that I write about “the human experience”.
What do I, what do I write about?