“You might fall in your own eyes and he might rise in yours.”
Power of a struggling human.
I am always asked what I do, how I spend my time as I am mostly at home doing nothing. To the ones who know that the art of writing is a struggle. A struggle you fight with your mind which has numerous thoughts running at once. Struggle to put them into right words so that at least one person gets to connect with it (many the better), struggle if people will ever buy the idea and the portraiture of the story you want to be read or heard. It’s a constant struggle with yourself and the environment around. And when a non-writer asks what do you do? There you struggle to explain them about your own struggles.
I’ve been in this situation for a long time now. But I lost patience to explain to the ones who just don’t get it. Especially when you get expressions like, ‘Oh, you write. Ahaan ok!’ That’s it! I know it is a rocket science to help you understand this, if you haven’t loved writing or never bothered to express your thoughts or tried being heard. But let me write mine. Dear, to make it simple you don’t belong to my kin.
A writer’s hand taste love, his fingers flirt, his heart expresses heartbreak in words and soul screams when you plan up to take a revenge. You spill the ink faster when you are happy and you just hold your pen when you deeply mourn. That’s the kind of writer feeling I live with. Other than my physical life, I’ve a life clasped between my fingers, which plod under those empty white sheets. Holding myself at every position, and at my weakest, as tight as it can possibly be. Yes, I stay put. I keep writing even when I am struggling but that’s what makes me the writer I am today and the one I dream of becoming.
I won’t mind if you conceal me to those four walls, lock me in a room, or put me in a cupboard, I’ll still think out of box. That’s what I am today.