I wish to write. The matter is I need to figure out what I wish to write. Do I write fiction? I believe I need to dream unbound to fictionalize my mind’s approach towards this piece of paper. Passion about life might help me to the edge. Maybe experiences and knowledge about the world will make me what millions wish to be. Nothing doing. I do not fit in anywhere. No knowledge for sure, experiences are rather sad, dark and murky! Do not wish to narrate it to myself, why should I torture all of you? Passion… (the one thing that I was told I have) seems to be trickling out of my grasp each morning as I wake up to the same old life. Wow! Am I sad!
I remember filling out page after page five years back. I was in school then. That was when I had vowed ‘literature is my thing’. I loved it. To write, to imagine, to be me! All of it, when it hardly mattered, when time was not rushing by, when no one was judging me.
Panic!!! Every time I hold a pen. Fear of failing and ashamed to perform badly! When did expressing me become such an exam?
May not be brilliant. May not be half worth what my peers are likely to be. Yet, I exist. I live, I feel and I will write. I will try. I will search my muse and embrace him. Like me not. Yet, to myself I will be fair.
As I perceive, it is hardly about good or bad, appreciation or rejection. It is only to try that we live and to hope we bind ourselves. I would like to believe I still have hope with the pen merely because I have picked it up again and again. I wish to write not to please but to live. For me.