Yes. I write about grief and sadness. About pain and suffering. I write about longing and loss. Mind you, I also write about joy and comfort. About desires and satisfaction. About fulfilment and lack thereof. Fret not, I write about happiness too!
I write when my tongue fails me. When my mind is saturated with thoughts and needs a release. I write to express, to be heard, to convey what I and many others feel. My hand despise my tongue. For my tongue fails me nowadays, more often than not. And the loss has to be covered up, by my weary hand – bearing the pen, busy at work on paper.
By my own reckoning, I believe I write well. I attempt to paint a picture for you, my dear reader. I try my level best to immerse you in a scene, one that can only be experienced by your eyes.
My words remain the same, for anyone who cares to glance over my manuscript. But I know, that these words strike a diffent chord in everyone’s soul.
I attempt to weave for you, a rich tapestry- for so is life. Nothing but a series of people and experiences, all woven together, intertwined, like threads – to make a beautiful pattern.
No one asked the threads for permission to be woven together, for their consent. And life won’t ask you either.
My writing, by no means, is a noble undertaking. It is a futile attempt at distracting myself. You see, I am a writer. I have a way of twisting my words to make me appear a sinless martyr. To make my case appeasing to you. To find favour with you.
But truly? I write to alleviate my pain. I find a patient audience in my readers. I get a chance to immerse myself in a world wherein I am in control, even of the inevitable. I have purely vested interests and I am glad to report almost all of those who read my work- succumb to this grand scheme of mine!
Yes. I also write about love. What is love you may ask?
I say, it is by far, the single most powerful and intangible substance that makes the world go round. It is a force beyond our ken.
It sustains us, breaks us down and sustains us yet again. It brings out the angels and demons within us. More than anything else, it teaches us. It is a dangerous weapon that no shield can withstand. It is a poison without antidote, a reward without action, a punishment without sin or wrongdoing, an act of devotion.
My dear reader. I write because I love you. I write, not to tell you my story, but instead to tell you one, of your own!
(This piece is dedicated to Monsieur P. A friend. A guru. A fellow writer. My muse)
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