On Writing

There are times in life when everything fails, when everything seems to fall out of place, when your peace of mind is fucked, in times like these, writing comes to rescue. I’ve been meaning to write since eternity now but couldn’t, it’s the most frustrating thing on earth. Today as I write this, I feel I’m born to write, I’d like to believe that my life demands me to write, there’s nothing else that gives that pleasure, nothing else that I look forward to, there’s nothing else that validates my existence. Writing purifies me from within, it lets me open up, it lets me communicate, it relieves me of all the fuckeries of life, it cleanses my soul. Writing helps me get rid of the layers of pretence, it’s everything that I’ve ever wanted. I need no validation from people, I do not write to make you happy or sad, laugh or cry, I do not write to massage your ego or offend you, I write because I ought to. I write because it makes me dynamic, it makes me alive. As I write this, I’ve switched off my phone, right now I do not care how directionless my career is right now, I haven’t sent that customary text to that special someone, right now I cannot even take Richard Feynman’s phone call (or maybe I can), everything is secondary right now. When I cry, my words cry with me, when I’m happy, they dance. When I’m lonely, they comfort me.  As I write this I feel alive, I feel real, after a long long time.