Reading was a natural habit that I developed from a young age. Reading helped me to become a storyteller. I have now morphed into writing, but it took me a long time to come to this stage as a writer.
The hardest thing in writing is stepping forward. It is also an act of resistance, resistance to yourself. I now lay bare to the rest of the world. It is also an act of courage.
Writing opens the door to self-discovery. It gets me to think progressively. By writing about my experiences, I re-discovered myself. It is a journey of self-actualisation and, more than anything, being honest with myself.
I am a historian, writing stories of my youth, parents, and grandparents. I have so much respect for the generations before me, particularly my parents and what they have done to make me who I am today. In turn, they helped me to make my children who they are. So, writing was part historical and part homage to my ancestry. It is also part therapeutic and part futuristic. My stories describe how difficult life was back then for my ancestors and their endurance to beat the odds of their day. It is a record for posterity.
Telling stories helps me to approach a new reality. See everything from a new perspective. Writing stories also come with a big social responsibility, particularly to my family. I had to come to terms with the past and understand my role in times gone by. Sharing my stories with the wider world helped me to continue to be a better person.
Writing about my experiences has allowed me to understand that my identity is complicated. It is not simple. It is of being human.
I go out naked in my stories, thoughts and essays. There is nowhere to hide. I become an open book. No doubt, some people will judge me.
But I am OK with that.
That’s why I say writing has made me a better person. It has helped me to understand my status and place in this world of seven billion people. Writing has stripped me to the core. It made me happy, despite the challenges at the beginning of the writing journey.
This is my legacy piece, my ancestors’ story. My kids are going to read them. Their children are going to read them. It is my ultimate legacy.
Writing has allowed me to question my thinking. I am a thought leader with a philosophical bent. I continue developing that personality through reading and writing. My life continues to change and evolve through reading and writing. I read every night to fall asleep. It is a beautiful way to end your day.
I always liked talking to people, engaging with people and making new friends. By writing and opening myself to others, I continue gaining more confidence. I talk to my friends about serious subjects, daily social challenges, and difficult subjects.
I did not have much as a young boy and a teenager. But I always had books and magazines with me. I spent at least 10% of my money on books. But I did not feel that I lacked anything. I had read so much at seventeen; my eyesight was so bad that I had to get spectacles.
Writing is one of my responsibilities. There are nearly six hundred subscribers to my stories and essays. They write back to me regularly with positive feedback. That is a great encouragement — I am service bound to my readers.
Writing is a journey. It generates a lot of energy. It is an act of stepping forward to move ahead.
We express the eternal truth; we are all born into the vast human story, and our destiny is to play a small role in that story. And when we die, the story goes on, told by others.
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
Shattered Innocence A story of a needle Denzil Jayasinghe · “Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin . This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities. T he pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks. Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… di...
The Man with the Bicycle A Godfather Without English Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read So this fellow, Wijetunga, arrived one humid afternoon in Warakanatte – a name given by the government, clipped from some dusty file in a distant ministry, and pinned onto our village like a misfitting badge. He came not with fanfare, but with the tiredness of a man who had travelled not just across provinces but across unspoken expectations. The new Grama Sevaka – government-appointed village functionary, dispenser of forms and permits, arbitrator of neighbourly disputes, and authoriser of rice ration books. He hailed from Enderamulla, a place that stirred vague murmurs among the older women in our family – whispers of ancestral ties, of some great-uncle’s cousin’s child from that neighbouring village. But no one invited him for tea. No one mentioned him at the dinner table as anything more than “the new man in the office.” Despite the murmurs, he remained a stranger- neither embraced nor excluded-...
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